


i trust no one else

by wingedgrace



Series: i trust no one else 'verse [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batfamily, Batfamily Angst, Batfamily Feels, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2020-10-18 17:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 42,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedgrace/pseuds/wingedgrace
Summary: There are some types of things that make you want to turn to Jason Todd before anyone else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> City of Bane and Ric are happening right now, and just so you know I haven't really acknowledged that in this fic. Other than that you can slide this fic into somewhat current comic continuity.

Jason Todd had not realized that phone booths were still a thing.

Correction: he knew there were still skeletons of phone booths all over Gotham, with the phone books ripped out and the hardware stolen or smashed. He knew that as more and more people used cellphones, the city stopped paying to fix vandalized phone booths. What he hadn't known, what surprised him, was that there were still phone booths that worked.

And what really shocked him was that his souped-up not-Bat-computer was telling him he had received 8 missed calls from a Gotham City phone booth, in the span of time he had been in the bathroom, to that goddamn superhero hotline number that Roy had made.

God, he missed Roy.

As he stared at the screen, wondering if he should even bother following up on what could well be a prank caller, the phone rang again.

He stared at it for a few seconds.

He picked up the phone. "Hello?"

No one answered for a few seconds, and Jason was considering hanging up, but then he heard a small noise - maybe a bad connection - maybe someone bumping the receiver of the phone - maybe something else.

"Hello?"

Silence. Followed a few moments later by small sniffle.

He was really not in the mood to do this. He liked being the Red Hood, he really did, and he liked saving people, but he'd been out on patrol all night, it was four in the morning, and what he really wanted was to collapse into bed. "Look, I can give you another number if you just need someone to talk to, but I -"

"Jason?"

Jason cut himself off abruptly.

"J-Jay -" the other person's breath hitched, and the connection was spotty. But he could have sworn it sounded like Dick Grayson.

"Dick?" He asked, more than replied.

The sob on the other end of the line was answer enough for him.

Which was concerning in and of itself.

Dick and him had never really confided in each other. They'd reached the point where they knew they could rely on each other in a fight, and Dick wasn't actively trying to put Jason in Arkham and Jason wasn't actively trying to kill Dick, but then Jason had shot the Penguin and he didn't know where he stood with any of the family anymore. None of his brothers had really bothered to ask for his side of the story, and the only reason Bruce hadn't arrested him was because he wanted to protect the Batman's secret identity.

"Dick, what happened?"

The line cut out for a second, but when it came back Dick was still crying and Jason still didn't have any answers. And it didn't sound like Dick would be capable of stringing together any type of coherent sentence anytime soon.

He let his computer run a trace of the call. A phone booth by that Denny's he and Tim had gone to that one time, when Damian was dead and Dick was "dead" and Bruce was an amnesiac.

It was also only a few blocks away.

He didn't want to, he was really tired, and he didn't feel like he owed anything to his family after how they'd treated him, but somehow he found himself jamming his feet back into his combat boots and shoving his mask in his pocket, in case it turned out to be a Nightwing thing instead of a Dick Grayson thing. And he hated it, he hated that he was going out of his way to help his perfect, annoying, hypocritical, heroic older brother but he knew it had to be something serious and he would hate himself more for not checking it out.

"Okay, Dick, I'm coming to meet up with you." Jason kept the phone on and climbed out the window of his apartment safehouse. One-handed parkour across the Gotham rooftops would still be a lot faster than going to the garage, getting his motorcycle and driving all the way around all the buildings. "Stay on the line, okay?"

For a few minutes there was no sounds except Dick's sniffling and Jason's boots pounding on brick and concrete and metal. His mind was racing. Had Dick been drugged, or gotten some of Scarecrow's fear toxin, or was he just drunk out of his mind? Was it all a setup and Jason was walking into a trap? Maybe HE was the one drugged, and this was Jason's mind stuck imagining some sort of impossible scenario so that the bad guy had enough time to carry out a grand master plan.

Honestly, the latter seemed like the most likely option.

He pulled his mask up to his eyes - the infrared showed Dick's body glowing in the phone booth, but no one seemed to be hiding in the shadows and there were no obvious traps - he stashed it back in his pocket and cautiously approached the dirt-encrusted phone booth, badly lit by a street light in need of repair.

Jason put his cell in his pocket and pulled back the plastic flap of the booth. "Dick?"

(Dick?) looked up a little and Jason almost didn't recognize him; his face was covered in blood and bruises and tears and his hair was long in an "I haven't had a haircut in months" sort of way and he'd pushed himself into the corner of the phone booth and was sitting on the ground in the fetal position with an old dirty blanket wrapped around himself.

"Holy shit." Jason's brain stopped working for a second."Holy shit, what happened to you?"

Dick's eyes were red and there were still tears streaming down his face. The only indication he'd even heard Jason was his head moving down slightly and his eyes shifting to look at the ground.

Jason was not prepared for this. Whatever he'd imagined could be wrong with Dick, this was not it.

He reached back into his memories of frightened victims on patrol, of the domestic abuse he'd seen as a kid in crime alley, of Bruce teaching a young Robin how to soothe civilians while fighting the Gotham rogues, of Dick hugging Damian when Damian thought his dad's sad love life was his own fault.

Jason slowly stepped into the phone booth and crouched into a squat. "Hey," he said softly. "Hey. Dick."

Dick didn't look up and his shoulders continued to shake.

"Dick, I want to get you somewhere safe, yeah?" Jason said gently. He waited several seconds to give Dick a chance to respond.

No change.

"Dick, can you look at me? I just want to help you."

In the dim glow of the too-far-away streetlight, Jason could just make out the whites of Dick's eyes and saw his eyes dart up to Jason's face and then back to the floor.

"I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?" Jason promised, old feuds and hurt feelings forgotten. "Can you give me a nod if you can hear me?"

Nothing, and then a short jerky nod.

"Good, that's good." Jason racked his brains to figure out what to say next. "It's pretty cold out here, it's late fall, huh?"

Another almost imperceptible nod.

"My safehouse is really close to here, Dick. It's a lot warmer there than here." Jason realized the blanket was covering most of Dick's body and he didn't have any idea if he was seriously injured. "Can you stand?"

Jason reached his hands out towards Dick to help him stand and Dick flinched, hard, further into the corner, slamming his head into the plastic wall, breaths coming faster.

"Shit." Jason cursed himself. "Dick, I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? I promise." He kept one hand out in front of him. "Dick, can you reach out and hold my hand? I'm not going to move it, and I'm not gonna hurt you."

He waited, waited a minute, two. Three. Somewhere around four, Dick eyed Jason's outstretched palm and slowly, slowly, slowly transferred his tight grip on the blanket to one hand, and with the free hand tentatively stretched it out. Jason hardly breathed until Dick had made contact with his hand with a fragile grip. He waited until Dick's hand gave his own a slight squeeze, as if testing if Jason's hand was real.

"Hi, Dick," Jason said, running out of soothing things to say. "Hey."

Dick's sobs came louder and he gripped Jason's hand with increased ferocity. Jason waited.

He waited until the sobs quieted down. "I'm gonna move a little bit closer, okay? I'm still gonna hold your hand, and your still gonna be safe, okay?"

Dick dipped his head up and down. Jason shuffled across the filthy ground scattered with soggy cigarette butts and old receipts until he was beside Dick instead of in front of him. He sat, and waited, and gave Dick time to adjust to the new position, and tried to collect his thoughts, because he had no idea what the hell had happened to his older brother, but he really wanted to go repeatedly stab the person responsible.

"Are you injured?"

Dick didn't respond at first, and then nodded slowly. He seemed a bit more aware than he had at the beginning.

Jason didn't want to force Dick to speak before he was ready and shatter the progress he'd made. "Can you point where you're hurt?"

Dick didn't move. Jason realized both Dick's hands were already occupied, with one gripping the blanket and the other in Jason's hand, but before he could think of something to say to fix it, Dick spoke with a hesitant, scratchy, broken sounding whisper.

"All over."

Jason felt a pang of anger and grief in his chest. He was going to flay alive the bastard that had done this.

"Jaysn," Dick slurred.

"Yeah?" Jason waited and this time Dick didn't say anything. He thought it was still good, though, that Dick was finally speaking. "I want to get us back to my apartment. Can you stand?"

Dick tried to push himself upright, using the phone booth to support his back. Jason continued to grip his hand and wrapped his other arm around Dick's shoulders to help him. Too late he realized this could spook Dick, but thankfully he reacted much better this time and only flinched slightly before leaning into the support. From the way Dick was moving, Jason assumed he had at least broken a few ribs, and his legs seemed pretty unsteady as well.

It was going to be slow going, reaching the apartment, if Dick was walking, if he was badly injured.

"Can I lift the blanket away to check for injuries?" But Dick had started shaking his head vigorously as soon as he'd said 'blanket.'

Jason's heart sank, but he understood. Sometimes you just didn't want to give up something that made you feel safe.

"Dick, can I carry you?" Jason asked as non-threateningly as possible.

After several breathless moments, Dick nodded his consent.

Jason didn't know the extent of Dick's injuries and wanted to avoid hurting him further. He left his one arm around Dick's shoulder, let his hand go and then gently brought his other hand down to Dick's legs, to pick him up bridal style.

And even though Dick had always had a slimmer build, more suited for acrobatics than for extreme weightlifting, Jason was downright horrified at how light Dick was. He couldn't have been eating properly, wherever he was and whatever had happened to him.

He swallowed down the bile in his throat.

"Alright, I'm gonna walk out of the phone booth now," he said. It was hard to maneuver in the tiny room really only made to fit one person, but he managed, and the freezing pre-winter air hit him as soon as he went outside. Dick shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around himself and leaning his head against Jason.

And Jason couldn't think of anything to say, but that was okay, because somehow he'd made Dick feel safe, and he didn't know if he'd ever felt such immense relief. He walked back to his apartment with his hurting brother in his arms, the wind cutting and his heart feeling like it was simultaneously ripped apart and mended because someone he loved was hurt but at least he was doing everything he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic I guess, and tbh I kind of just posted it spur-of-the-moment. I've read lots of fics before so I have a general understanding of how tags and stuff work so hopefully I didn't embarrass myself too badly.


	2. Chapter 2

Halfway back to the apartment, Jason had a pretty good guess as to why Dick hadn't once let go of the blanket. He'd carried a fair number of people in his day - injured civilians, unconscious superheroes, Batman the odd time he was knocked out, some of the neighbour's toddlers back as a kid, even his mom when she'd been using drugs.

He felt the blanket against his skin, and the weight of his (too skinny) brother in his arms, but nothing else. No resistance between the blanket, or rumpling up of two separate fabrics against each other. 

He was pretty certain Dick Grayson was naked.

His stomach did a flip and he tried not to think of the implications.

When he reached his apartment door, he gave Dick plenty of warning and set him down gently, careful not to let the blanket get pulled higher or lower on Dick's body.

He unlocked the door and turned to help Dick inside, but Dick looked at him searchingly, like he wanted to see the answer on Jason's face because he couldn't work up the courage to ask the question.

"This is one of my safehouses." Jason smiled, trying to hide as much of his sadness at his brother's state as he could. He flicked on the light. "Can I help you walk inside?"

Dick looked inside and then back at Jason. He looked up and down the corridor of the run-down apartment, and then back at Jason, and then back inside the room.

Jason wondered how much control Dick had had of his own life lately. "Or you can walk in by yourself, if you want?"

Dick took a slow, halting step forward, and then stumbled into the room with the blanket still snug around himself. He stood there, a bit uncertain.

"You can sit on the couch, if you want," Jason told him, guessing that Dick was waiting for permission. His brother wandered over to his living room and sank into the cushions. Jason followed him and sat down beside him. He wanted to give Dick space, but he was also starting to get nervous that he had no idea the extent of Dick's injuries and maybe should have just rushed him to the hospital, gentleness be damned. He tried to think of what to say.

"Can you bring the blanket down a tiny bit?"

Dick looked alarmed, but Jason hurriedly reassured him, "Not all the way, just to your waist, just so I can check you for injuries."

Jason waited, outwardly patient, inwardly anxious. He really hoped he was making the right choice by being more cautious and winning Dick's trust, and that Dick wasn't bleeding out or anything.

Shaking, Dick slowly peeled the blanket away from his body, revealing a mess of blood and bruising and burn marks all over his skin. It was mostly dried, but dragging the rough material away from his back and chest had scraped some of the sticky, oozing scabs open. Dick's arms and hands were similarly wounded, which Jason hadn't noticed before, unable to see that in the dim, poorly lit streets of Gotham's night. He didn't bring the blanket any lower than his hips and wrapped the extra fabric tightly around himself. His ribs didn't look badly broken but Jason guessed they were at least bruised, if not fractured. Nothing looked imminently life-threatening, but there could still be internal bleeding.

"Shit," Jason breathed. He could do stitches and field dressings, but he had a feeling Dick would need a lot more than that. "I need to bring you to a hospital, or to Leslie, or -" he was definitely not on good terms with Bruce, but Dick still was and that would probably be the option he was most comfortable with - "or we could go to the batcave, so Alfred -"

"NO!" Dick shouted hoarsely. Jason jumped, surprised. Dick seemed to have shocked himself, as well.

"Why?" Jason asked as gently as he could. He had the urge to pull Dick's long bangs out of his eyes so he could see his brother's face more clearly.

Dick turned to Jason directly. "Jay," he pleaded.

"What?"

"Can you. Can - can you," he said helplessly, his voice still terribly weak. "Can you please -"

Dick started crying again. Jason could see him trying to rein it in a bit, because it was quieter and more restrained-sounding. He shifted restlessly, wanting to help but not knowing how.

"Can you -" Dick choked back the tears. "Can you kill him. Please, can you -"

The sobs came back, full on, and Jason was dumbfounded. Dick Grayson was asking him? Dick Grayson was asking -

And then it dawned on him. He didn't want Bruce to know. He hadn't called Bruce, or Tim, or Alfred, or Barbara, or Damian. He hadn't called the Titans. He hadn't called any of his friends in the Justice League.

He'd called Jason Todd.

He'd wanted Jason to be the one to find him. Dick knew as soon as he was safe into the grasp of the others, there was no way they'd let him kill whoever had done this to him, either because they didn't believe in killing, or they knew Dick's strong moral code and would refuse him something like this on behalf of who he used to be.

He'd hoped Jason would kill his torturer.

Jason put his arms around Dick, and Dick leaned into his chest and sobbed, deep, heaving sobs that came from his soul. Jason held his brother and wanted to laugh and cry and scream, because he was number one on Dick Grayson's call list, but only because he'd killed before and wasn't afraid to do it again. Of course, of course, it wasn't because Dick was closest to him. Of course it wasn't because he wanted Jason's comfort.

Of course, of course, of course, Jason thought bitterly to himself. Because Bruce and his whole Bat Cult looked at Jason Todd and saw a murderer; saw someone who did Bad Things. Just once in his goddamn life he wanted someone, somewhere, to just take him as he was instead of wishing he were someone else, or worse yet, assume they knew everything about him and typecast him as a senseless murderer.

He'd had that in Roy Harper, and even in Kory. But lately, Kory was always off-planet, and Roy -

Goddammit.

But a part of him was also grateful that that's why Dick had called him. Because that's why he crossed the lines that he did. Because victims deserved to feel safe, because some crimes were inexcusable, because there were some disgusting excuses for human beings that would never turn from their ways.

Because avenging crimes felt good, and it felt good to be avenged, and his own father had never avenged his death and it felt so damn good to give what he could never have to others.

And Dick was shuddering in his arms, his emotions pouring out of his eyes, thin and underfed and vulnerable, with wounds inside and out.

Goddammit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha, I tried to stay as true to the characters as I could, hopefully I did an okay job?


	3. Chapter 3

Dick sobbed, and Jason let him.

He let Dick cry out with all the pain and frustration and suffering; let him scream his fear and humiliation and exhaustion with the rough, uncontrollable sobs that come from complete lack of restraint and abandon of dignity.

Dick seemed so small in his arms. His older brother, desperately seeking comfort, curled up and convulsing with tears.

He'd never felt so inadequate.

He might have been the least qualified person to soothe his brother. He'd never had very stable emotional support himself, what with his crappy early childhood, two years living with a man who dressed up as an animal to beat people up at night, dying while protecting a mother who never cared about him, and then coming back to life to be manipulated by Talia and continually let down by Bruce. 

There was Roy and Kory, and Bizarro and Artemis. But Roy was... gone, and Bizarro and Artemis were MIA, and Kory - Kory was off fighting magic or aliens or something. Really, in the end, everyone he loved was taken from him.

He needed a way to calm Dick down, though, so he could get him some medical help. The niggling worry that Dick's injuries needed to be tended to sooner rather than later was growing too much to ignore.

He reached back as far as he could recall, to the vague memory of his mom holding him after a nightmare. Not Sheila Haywood, the woman who donated her genes to his dad and then set him up to die, but Catherine Todd, who really did love him, for all her faults. He remembered her holding him and whispering how much she loved him while she ran her fingers through his hair. He remembered crying after her overdose, craving one more of her hugs and knowing he'd never get one again.

He remembered Dick doing something similar with Damian when he was unconscious from an injury, just letting his fingers brush the kid's spiky hair.

He didn't have any perfect Hallmark words, but hopefully he could give his brother the space he needed to let out all the emotion, and just be.

"Hey, it's okay." He took one hand off Dick's shoulder and hesitantly let it rest on Dick's head. Dick tensed initially at the touch, but as Jason continued to thread his fingers through the tangles, his brother gradually relaxed. "You're gonna be okay."

The strands were sticky with sweat and blood and grime, but Jason didn't care. He sat with Dick until he'd lapsed into the more rhythmic sobs of reflex crying instead of the flat-out screams of raw emotion.

"You're safe, now. He can't hurt you."

Words he'd wished Bruce had been there to tell him when he was fifteen and in agony, waiting to die under the rubble of an exploded warehouse, body in searing pain from being mashed by a crowbar.

"Jasn," Dick murmured.

"Yeah?"

"Can you?" The 'kill him' part went unsaid.

Jason didn't know what to say. On one hand, he really did want to kill Dick's tormentor, and kill him slowly at that. But on the other hand, he knew Dick could very well regret asking his younger brother to kill for him, and then let the guilt eat him alive forever. (Even though he really was entitled to wanting the man dead.)

"I will do whatever I need to to keep you safe, to make you feel safe," Jason promised. "But right now, you're my priority, okay? Not that son of a bitch that hurt you. You understand?"

Dick shook his head, hair brushing against Jason's hand.

"We'll deal with him, but first we have to take care of you, because you're more important." Jason hoped he was saying the right things. Apparently it was working, to a degree, because Dick's breathing was gradually evening out. "I'm going to give you a choice, okay? We either go to Alfred or Leslie to get you checked out and cleaned up."

He felt Dick instantly tense, and Jason added, "and we don't have to let Bruce know, or anyone else. I know Leslie and Alfred well enough to know they'll keep your secret as long as you want."

Dick shook his head into Jason's chest.

Jason chuckled. "You don't believe me? Who do you think patched me up when I got injured after returning to Gotham with revenge schemes and fresh new murder tricks from the League of Assassins? Because it sure as hell wasn't Bruce."

Dick stilled, listening.

"You know Leslie Thompkins has that personal moral code for her clinic, right? Where she'll patch up anyone who walks through her doors?"

Dick moved his head a bit again, which Jason took to be an acknowledgement of some kind.

"She stitched me up, more than once." Jason looked down at the top of Dick's head. "And she never ever told Bruce. Because I asked her not to."

Dick fidgeted with the corner of the blanket.

"I guess she figured I was hellbent on putting bullets through heads whether I was at full health or not, and at least if she showed me some kindness it might encourage me to, you know. Make up with Bruce or something. Who knows." Jason shrugged. "But she's a woman of her word, Dick. She won't rat you out to Bruce, or anyone else."

Dick was silent. Jason hoped Dick was considering going along with him willingly, because he did not want to drag him along kicking and screaming.

"Or we could go by Alfie. And for God's sake, Dick, Bruce lets him carry a shotgun around." Jason smirked to himself. "He's not going to sell you out to Bruce for wanting your torturer dead. He might even offer to kill the guy himself."

Dick made a small breathy noise, which probably would have turned into a snort of laughter had he been his regular old self.

"So here's what we're gonna do." Jason needed to get Dick moving; he'd always thought more clearly when in motion. "I haven't done laundry in a while, but I'm pretty sure there's still clean clothes in the top drawer of my dresser. Grab whatever you want, and get changed, okay? And think about if you'd rather see Alfred or Leslie."

Jason waited a minute to see if Dick would get up on his own, but he made no attempt to sit up.

"Alright, I'm going to help you sit up now," Jason said, gently holding Dick's shoulders and pushing him upright.

Dick looked up at Jason tiredly, face blotchy with tears.

"Do you want to walk by yourself? Or should I carry you?" Jason wondered how exhausted Dick was at this point, wounded as he was and having cried for as long as he did.

Dick didn't move and averted his eyes, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing.

"You can say whatever," Jason encouraged. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Dick shrugged.

"Okay." Jason made sure to ask for Dick's permission first. "Can I carry you then?"

His brother nodded.

"Alright." Jason kept his movements slow and predictable, and picked Dick up again like he had before.

He made his way to his bedroom and carefully set his brother down. Then he fumbled through his top drawer for something clean and warm, because although he kept all his safe houses tidy and organized, he didn't have time to do laundry often for every single one. He found a pair of clean boxers and a mostly clean pair of sweatpants, and a warm hoodie that he hadn't worn yet this fall because it hadn't been cold enough yet.

He put the clothes on the bed. "You can change into these while I get you some water," Jason told him, trying to give him some privacy. He also bet that Dick was a bit dehydrated, since the monster that had held him obviously hadn't fed him enough, so he doubted Dick had had enough to drink either.

He waited a few minutes to return and gave Dick a warning before entering the room again.

He was only wearing the boxers when Jason entered. This was the first time Jason had seen Dick's legs, since they'd been covered by the blanket the whole time. They looked even worse than his upper body, bloody and mud-covered with deep purple and green bruises peeking underneath. His feet were bare and a few of his toes were definitely broken. It made something twist inside his stomach.

Jason wondered if his corpse had looked this way to Bruce, in Ethiopia.

"You don't like the pants?" he tried to joke. "I think I have some gym shorts somewhere, if you'd rather that."

Dick blinked with something like surprise. "Oh."

Jason let him limp over to the bed and reach out for the sweats.

"I," his voice rough and heavy with bewilderment, "didn't know they were for me, too."

Something in Jason's heart broke. "Yeah, Dick, they're for you," he said softly. "The sweater too."

It was the first time since the phone booth that Jason saw something in Dick's eyes other than pain and pure, naked fear. The left corner of Dick's mouth came up an almost indiscernible amount, the precursor of a smile.

Jason turned to put the glass of water down, keeping his back to Dick until he'd finished pulling on the clothes.

He handed the glass to his brother, who took it almost reverently and drank it slowly, savouring the whole thing. It hurt Jason to watch, to realize the magnitude of what Dick had been through. He took the cup when Dick was finished and set it on his dresser, to clean up later. He wanted to focus solely on Dick right now.

"Can I carry you again, so we can get to my car?" Jason didn't move until Dick nodded, and then gently lifted him into his arms. Dick relaxed almost immediately, and Jason wondered just how good it felt to be wearing clothes again.

Jason didn't want to jostle Dick and aggravate his injuries, so he took about three times as long as he normally did to reach the garage, but he didn't mind. He sat Dick in the passenger seat, didn't bother with a seatbelt that would only dig into the wounds on his chest and back, and closed the door of the car with the least amount of force possible. He climbed back into the driver's seat, checked to make sure Dick was okay and then started to drive.

"Have you decided yet, Leslie or Alfred?"

Dick shook his head. Jason had been anticipating his inability to make a decision, and knowing that Leslie's clinic was another degree of removal from Bruce, suggested, "we could go to Leslie's then? It's closer."

Dick nodded gratefully.

They drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and then Jason couldn't help but ask, "Dick, how long did he have you?"

Dick started, like he'd forgotten that time was a thing. "I -" his voice was husky. "I don't know."

Jason figured his captor probably hadn't given him a calendar. "What's the last thing you remember before?"

Dick scrunched up his face a bit. "It was -" Dick's scratchy voice hesitated. "Just after Christmas, I think."

Jason's eyes widened. "Jesus, Dick. That was almost a year ago."

Dick looked down at his hands, and Jason clenched the steering wheel with enough force to snap a neck. Everyone trusted Dick Grayson. They all thought Nightwing was so independent and capable and perfect that they hadn't bothered to check up on him in Bludhaven, and he supposed there hadn't been any crisis big enough for one of his former Titans teammates to call him up, or for the batfamily to need his help.

Jason had thought no one had talked to him after the Penguin incident because he was Jason Todd, Black Sheep Of The Family, Murderer. But maybe they were all just too wrapped up in their own problems to check up on anyone, even the golden boy, Dick Grayson himself.

Jason shook himself back to the present. Dick was finally opening up and Jason really needed to know more details.

"How did you get free?"

Dick made a noise that was probably supposed to be a bitter laugh but sounded more like a whimper. "He said -" Dick's voice cracked. "said he was done with me. Because -" tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes, glistening as they passed a traffic light. "Because he has fun breaking people, but I'd become a little too broken for his taste."

Jason clenched his teeth together so hard he thought his jaw would dislocate.

"Woke up in a dumpster in a parking lot. There was a blanket inside, so I took it." Dick's voice shook. "I didn't know what to do, I could see a phone booth, I didn't know what to do so I called you I'm sorryI'mso-"

"Dick, breathe, it's okay," Jason interrupted, keeping one hand on the wheel and reaching his other out to Dick. Maybe asking Dick this type of question while he was also driving had been a mistake. "Can you hold my hand again?"

Dick had his hands by his face, scrubbing at his eyes, but eventually brought one of them to Jason's, wet with tears and reopened wounds. Jason was still raging inside from wanting to kill the fucker, and it took all his willpower to keep the tension from bleeding into his hand and scaring Dick, who desperately needed gentle support at the moment. The comfort must have been enough to stop Dick from completely breaking down, because although some tears still seeped out, he wasn't crying like he had been earlier. Or maybe his body was simply too weak to support full-body sobs.

Jason gave him a sad smile and moved his fingers a little, not enough to squeeze but just enough to let Dick know he was there.

Neither of them said anything for the rest of the drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got way more love on the first two chapters than I expected, given that this is only the first fic I've posted! This chapter was a lot harder for me to write for some reason so hopefully it lives up to your expectations :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first three chapters were more from Jason's point of view; giving the inside view to only his thoughts and feelings. I figured it was time to switch perspectives and give Dick a turn :)

Dick Grayson was not a coward.

He wasn't.

At least, he didn't want to be.

He understood that the past shaped him: he cherished the happy memories of his parents and knew that as long as his memories of the Flying Graysons burned brightly in his heart, his parents' spirits lived on within him. His friendship with the Titans ran deep, thicker than family blood ties, in a way that only comes from fighting back to back, being cut to the bone and bleeding and fighting with every last reserve to protect comrades-in-arms.

But he'd never been someone to let tragedy define him. He used all the pain and suffering in his life as a catalyst to move forward even stronger than before: the grief of his parents' murder fueled him to fight for justice for others as Robin. He'd never completely warmed up to Jason, feeling too much like Bruce had replaced him with the first orphan he came across, and then felt absolutely, terribly guilty that he'd never have more time to embrace his kid brother after he'd died. But he didn't let that knock him down and instead focused on embracing the family he still had - he mended his relationship with Bruce; took Tim under his wing as a brother and friend, teaching him everything he knew. He gave Cassandra the benefit of the doubt despite her assassin background, willing to show her what a real family looked like. He tried to keep Stephanie safe by backing Bruce up in his attempts to sideline her. He trained the Titans harder and drilled them endlessly so there would be no room for reckless mistakes. With Bruce himself gone, he took Damian in as his (son?) Robin and was both gentle and strict, breaking the League of Assassins conditioning that encouraged risking life and limb to prove oneself worthy of respect. He couldn't afford to lose anyone else, so at the cost of himself, he became a safety net for as many of his loved ones as possible.

And Bruce's morals kept him sane and anchored. When his mind tended to be as fluid and adaptable as his acrobatics, the oath remained solid in his memories. To fight against crime and corruption, never swerving from the path of righteousness. Taking the high road even when it was hard and saving lives that no one would miss. It's why allowing Tarantula to kill Blockbuster had left him so unsteady and vulnerable, his one unshakable belief compromised. He'd started fighting more and more battles he had no chance of winning, hoping to redeem himself. The only thing that had saved him and moved him forward was promising to himself to never lose sight of the value of someone's life. (Not even his own.)

No matter how many Gotham madmen had tried to destroy the city, alien warlords tried to conquer the earth, or magical demons attempted to enslave his friends, he always, always found a way to get back up and fight. For his friends. For his family. For his city. For the planet. Even to save the universe, several times.

But being locked in a windowless, claustrophobically small room for hours, days, months on end, with no reprieve and no hope in sight and nothing but pain and hunger and terror? And not even tortured for information, or for the sake of a war, or because of an evil mastermind plan that he was a pawn of. No, there was no greater good to fight for; no reason to hold on and steel his mind against the trauma because there was no one he needed to save. Because it was just him, and his captor, and his fear and agony and thirst; the abject terror when his torturer was in the room and the unbearable solitude when he was alone; old and fresh pain in so many places that he didn't remember what it was like to feel normal. And there didn't seem to be a point to holding in his tears and screams and pleads anymore, because the torment came anyways and nothing he did made it less.

Part of him was deeply ashamed of allowing himself to have broken, but the bulk of him didn't care because he was so preoccupied with fear and hopelessness and craving survival.

After a while his brain was overwhelmed with too many emotions to properly process anything going on around him, and everything blurred into one giant wave of intolerable suffering until the announcement that he was too broken to be of use and he blacked out from a blow to the head.

And he woke up for the first time not in his cell in God knows how long, in a dumpster that had a blanket, and the glorious feeling of something covering his bare skin was almost enough to pull his mind out of his near-catatonic state, and hours later he managed to drag himself out of the bin and limp towards a phone booth with bare feet and aching skin, scrape some loose change from a slimey moldy pile of receipts on the ground and call the only number his emotional, frenzied mind could remember because instinctively he knew he would be safe, and not judged.

Someone was saying something. And he realized he was sitting in a car seat, with actual clothes on, and he remembered everything and nothing and it took all his will to force his whirlwind of thoughts back just enough so that he could actually focus on what was happening in real time, instead of being completely sucked back into traumatic memories.

"Dick. We're at the clinic now."

Dick realized the car had stopped moving, and they were facing the back of Leslie Thompkin's urgent care clinic.

The wall of the building was grey, and so had his cell been.

"-an I carry you inside again?" Jason was saying.

Dick nodded. It hurt the burns behind his knees and the slashes on his back and it crunched up his ribcage in a very painful way, but he liked being held. Jason was warm and gentle and it made him feel safe. It also meant he didn't have to do anything and could just let Jason do the actions, which meant Dick didn't have to do something and risk getting punished for it.

He tried to wrestle his thoughts away and was only present enough to take in his surroundings well after Jason had already picked him up and left the car behind.

The back door opened before they reached it. Some man in plumber's clothing holding some sort of metal tool came out.

He slammed the door behind him and Dick jumped. He heard Jason murmur something but his tether on the present was lost, he was drowning in a surging tide of dread, the door to his cell had opened and closed and now he was going to be tortured again, oh God how much more could he take, he couldn't, he couldn't handle it, it was too much -

"- just a fix-it guy, Dick, it's okay -"

\- but - but he was in danger, he was -

"won't let anyone hurt you, I promise -"

\- he tried to back up against the wall but he couldn't, something was holding him, oh God -

"Can you listen to my voice? Just listen to me talking, okay?"

His captor had never sounded this patient.

"That's good, Dick. Deep breaths. In and out."

Something he'd done was good? He wasn't going to get punished. He hadn't upset anyone.

"That's right. Deep breaths, okay?"

He smelt something that wasn't the stench of his own blood and piss and sweat. Someone he trusted.

"Hey, that's good. That's good. Keep breathing."

He put more thought this time into what he was smelling, and he realized it was the soft fabric of - of a hoodie. He was warm. Jason smelt like Gotham night air and safety and freedom, not like his shitty stuffy cell.

"You back with me?"

Dick opened his eyes and liquid poured out. He didn't remember closing them but apparently he had, and he'd shut some tears in with them. He looked up and saw Jason's face, eyes rimmed with dark shadows and chin framed with stubble.

"Hey, Dick." Jason smiled. Dick liked being smiled at. It made him feel not as ruined inside, like he was still worth something to someone.

"Sorry," he whispered, suddenly aware of his freak-out and hoping it hadn't lasted long enough to bother Jason too much.

"It's okay, Dick. You're allowed to feel emotion."

Allowed? He was allowed. To do things, now, not just live at another's mercy.

"There's going to be a lot of people inside, and it might be loud."

People. People who weren't just him and his torturer.

And Jason.

"It's okay to be scared, but you don't have to be, okay?"

Dick nodded warily.

"You can close your eyes. Close your eyes and think about breathing, about the air going in and out of your lungs. We'll be in a private waiting room before you know it."

Jason sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Dick obediently shut his eyelids closed. (He'd had black eyes at one point, and they still throbbed from being slightly swollen.) He felt Jason start to walk forward again, and his organs ground together on the inside, and he tried to imagine the air whistling in and out of his lungs.

Jason awkwardly opened the door with one of the hands that was carrying Dick, and they were hit by a wall of sound. It was loud, too loud, and it was too much, and Dick tried to think only of his lungs but his breaths sped up faster and faster, and he cowered into Jason's shoulder. He heard vibrations through Jason's throat and chest, knew he had to be talking with someone and arranging something but he couldn't focus, he heard his pulse beating in his ears and felt the pain reverberating in his body with each step Jason took, and it seemed like forever before the world slowed down enough for him to think.

He realized he was sitting, not being carried. There was an arm around his shoulder.

"-examination table. It's just you and me now."

Shaking, Dick slowly opened his eyes. The room was small, it was small. It was small but Jason was here with him.

"-brave. That was noisier than I expected. Sorry, Dick."

Dick barely registered the words, just the tone. He was safe now.

The word snuck out of him without permission. "Small."

He felt Jason sigh. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

Dick shrugged. He didn't know what to say, didn't know what he was supposed to do. He hated that it was small and he hated that he cared so much about the size of a room. Of course it wasn't his cell, he knew that, the walls weren't even grey, but it still made him anxious.

"I don't -" Jason paused.

Dick raised his head to look at Jason.

"I don't. Like small rooms either." Dick watched his Adam's apple bob as Jason swallowed thickly. "It reminds me of -" Jason looked at Dick and seemed to reconsider his words. "I don't like what it reminds me of. But I can push away those thoughts by thinking about people, by focusing on people I'm saving on patrol, or on my teammates."

Dick considered this. There weren't many people he wanted to think about at the moment - he was fairly certain his friends and Titans teammates would be horrified that he'd allowed himself to reach his current state, and his family would be furious when they found out how badly he wanted his tormentor dead.

But Jason had been nothing but kind. It wouldn't hurt to think about him. "Okay."

"Good," Jason smiled. Dick felt warm inside.

They waited in silence for an amount of time. Dick wasn't sure how long.

He heard yelling in the corridor outside their room and flinched. He hardly noticed Jason's expression of concern before the door swung open and shut and now he was in for it, there was yelling and that meant anger and that meant Dick was going to hurt even worse than he already did and the door had slammed which meant he was eager to carve into Dick and his skin already hurt down to his bones. Dick screamed and screwed his eyes shut and backed into the corner as fast as he could, arms brought up to try to shield his face. Apologies never prevented the pain but sometimes it bought him a few extra seconds before the torture started, so he braced himself and sobbed out how sorry he was over and over again.

He felt something brush his shoulder and he shrieked louder, oh God it was coming he was so tired of pain he just wanted to be left alone, why couldn't he just be left alone.

He cried.

His shoulders shook against the wall and it disturbed the wounds there but it didn't matter because he was just going to be hurt again.

He cried until he realized that nothing had hurt him yet.

"God, Dick, I'm sorry, I didn't warn you that Leslie was coming in."

The voice sounded apologetic. Dick was confused.

"It's okay, Dick. You're still safe."

Safe? How could he be safe when the torment was so imminent?

"I'm gonna leave my hand here again, and whenever you're ready you can reach out and grab it again."

Hand. Hands usually inflicted bruises. But this time he could choose when he wanted contact?

He slowly opened his eyes. He kept his arms up in front of his head, just in case.

His arms were familiarly scabbed and scarred. By his left side was - someone worried - his brother. Jason.

Dick dropped his eyes down to the bed, where Jason's hand laid, palm upturned.

He looked around the room. Sitting in a chair across from him was - was someone. Someone he knew? A woman.

"That's Leslie. You remember her, Dick, she's helped you before when you were injured."

A flash of memory came, of him in the blue and black suit - the Nightwing suit - his leg bleeding, and someone scolding him but also stitching it up. Leslie?

He looked closer at the woman - at Leslie. Her face didn't look angry. It looked sad.

"Leslie wants you safe, too."

Well, if Jason said she was safe then maybe she really was. He waited a few minutes just to be sure and then slowly lowered his arms, now trembling from the exertion of holding them up. Neither Jason nor Leslie moved, so it had to be safe. He hesitantly reached out to Jason's outstretched hand. He wasn't - he hadn't been allowed to hit back. But this wasn't hurting, this was - Jason never lashed out. Jason let him choose when to make contact.

He slid his fingers over Jason's warm palm and breathed a sigh of relief when no one stopped him from holding on.

The room was silent. Dick felt bad. There had been no danger after all, and now he'd gone and made everyone sad.

"I'm going to talk with Leslie now, okay? You don't have to say anything. You can listen, or you can just focus on holding my hand."

Dick nodded. He could do that.

Jason and Leslie talked in low voices, and Dick half listened and half didn't. They were talking about him, and his injuries. The small room was still scaring him so he took Jason's advice and didn't think about the size of the room. He thought about Jason giving him the glass of water, and how good it felt sliding down the inside of his throat.

Dick was exhausted, but he knew he was probably supposed to stay awake, so he kept his eyes open.

His toes ached, the ones at the wrong angles.

He knew Jason was going to make things better, though. He squeezed his hand around Jason's a little tighter. He felt the hem of the sweater (he was wearing a sweater!) with his free hand. It was fluffy on the inside. He liked it. It was still all he could do to keep his mind from throwing itself into the abyss of the past year's memories, but Jason kept saying it was going to turn out okay, and he was maybe finally starting to believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tend to write how thoughts and ideas naturally flow, so. Sorry if the sentences aren't the easiest to read, but if I'd structured them properly I feel like I wouldn't have gotten as much of Dick's emotion and thought process across, so hopefully the trade-off was worth it.
> 
> And again, thank you for the kudos and comments! I'm amazed and honoured and so happy you guys are enjoying my writing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Jason's point of view.

Jason sat beside Dick for all of the scans and tests. He could tell some of the machines made his brother feel claustrophobic, even though Dick didn't say anything about it. He wondered if Dick simply trusted Jason enough to realize the scans were necessary, or if the ability to complain had been beaten out of him. In any case, being right next to him would hopefully alleviate some of the stress.

He used the time to kick himself mentally on how stupid he'd been, not preparing Dick enough and forgetting to warn him in advance. The repairman coming out of the door had been enough to trigger him, for crying out loud. The waiting room had a door too, and of course Jason knew Leslie had to open the door to get inside, but he hadn’t thought to tell his brother. He was such an idiot. The sheer terror Dick had exhibited was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

The worst thing was that Dick obviously wasn't holding anything against him. He was far too traumatized. Anything Jason said or did must have seemed like royal treatment compared to the last several months of his existence.

Jason took a deep breath to centre himself. He couldn't afford to let himself spiral right now. Dick needed him to be better than that. The time for self-depreciation would come later, when Dick didn't need so much one-on-one care.

After the last scan was complete and Dick was out of the machine, visibly relieved to be in a larger area, Leslie smiled and asked, "Dick, do you need to use the washroom?"

Dick nodded sheepishly.

"There's one right across the hall. You can go by yourself, whenever you're ready."

Dick looked to Jason. Jason didn't think anything of it until he clued in that Dick was looking for permission.

Dick was asking his permission to use the goddamn washroom.

"Go ahead, Dick," he said, trying to plaster a smile over how shocked and sick he felt.

Dick took a few seconds to collect himself, and then limped into the one-room washroom.

Jason rubbed a hand over his face. "Dammit," he muttered. "He's probably had to go for ages but it never even occurred to me that he thought he would need my permission, I should have known, I-"

"Jason," Leslie interrupted him sharply.

Jason stopped himself mid-sentence.

"When was the last time you slept?"

Jason laughed. "I didn't sleep at all last night," he admitted, "and I only got about an hour the day before that."

"You need to sleep," Leslie said sternly, and before he could wave her off she added, "you said he doesn't want Bruce to know yet?"

"Yeah."

"So you're planning on taking care of him by yourself?" She raised her eyebrows.

"Well, yeah, because he doesn't feel safe with anyone else, and I'm not about to make him suffer through panic attacks just because I want a break." Jason stared at her defiantly.

"Jason, if you let yourself run without sleep for much longer, you're going to lose the energy and focus you need to take care of Dick."

Jason rolled his eyes. "I know my limits. I can last more than two days without sleep."

"Not while taking care of a survivor of a year's worth of traumatic abuse, who is suffering from PTSD, crippling anxiety, malnutrition and dehydration, not to mention whatever additional results my technicians find on the scans."

"You don't think I can handle it." Jason snorted. "I think I've done just fine so far, thank you very much."

"I didn't say that." Leslie lightened her tone slightly. "I'm saying that you cannot continue to care for him if you yourself are barely holding it together. You're going to accidentally snap at him or forget to give him something that he doesn't know how to ask for, and you will feel awful and he will lose faith in the one person he thought he could trust."

Jason had to admit she had a point, but he wasn't willing to back down yet. "I will sleep, but not yet. He's still got cuts all over that need to be cleaned out and stitched, and -"

"One of my nurses can do that, and you can get at least an hour of sleep."

"No." Jason flat out refused. "I'm doing it."

"Jason, my staff are trained -"

"I found him fucking naked," Jason spat. "He hardly let me even approach him, at first. I don't think he's going to want a stranger poking and prodding at him."

"Jason Peter Todd," she admonished.

He had the decency to look cowed. "Sorry."

"You're proving my point," Leslie said, softening her words with the hint of a smile. "You're arguing with a doctor who has decades of medical experience in Gotham city. I've cared for countless patients in Dick's condition. You need to sleep, and you need to trust me."

Jason rubbed his dry eyes tiredly. He didn't want to leave Dick alone while he was still so scared of - well - everything, but he really was running on fumes at this point. "Fine. But only if I can stay in the same room as him, and you promise not to tell Bruce or any of the others where he is."

"Of course." 

"And a nurse you trust. Or, actually, could you do it? You usually stitch us up when we're in costume anyway, because of the whole secret identity thing."

Leslie smiled. A real smile, not one used to mask bad news or soften criticisms. "You know I'd do everything in my power for you boys."

Jason sagged with relief. "Thank you."

Leslie put her hand on his shoulder, and the touch was so gentle that he felt like crying. "You're doing well, Jason."

He managed to loosen the tension he was holding in his shoulders a little and gave her a smile. "Thanks," he replied, a little shakier than he'd wanted it to come out.

"Has he talked to you at all about what happened to him?"

"Not really, except to confirm that he'd been taken for nearly a year," Jason scowled, "and his torturer threw him out like a broken toy because he wasn't fun to play with anymore."

Leslie moved like she was about to respond, but they could hear the toilet flushing across the corridor. "You should go make sure he's okay. If doors are one of his triggers, he might not have it in him to be able to open one."

Jason jumped up. "Right."

As he walked up to the door, he realized Dick had never properly shut it. Understandable, really, considering he'd spent so much time locked behind one.

It also meant that he could hear enough from the inside to catch the sound of Dick's breath hitching.

He knocked gently on the door. "It's just me, Jason. You okay?"

There was no reply.

Jason was about to ask his question again when he heard a quivering, tentative answer. "No."

"Can I come in?"

Dick sniffed. "Okay."

Jason slowly pushed the door open. Dick was staring at his reflection in the mirror, tap still running, soap suds not yet rinsed from his hands.

It reminded Jason of the first time he saw his reflection after his resurrection. He'd died as a boy, resurrected into a catatonic state and by the time he had enough presence of mind to actually study his face in the mirror, he was almost a man.

Dick wasn't seeing a difference of age, though. He was seeing uncut hair and blood-soaked skin; a physical map of his suffering.

Jason gradually worked his way over to Dick so as not to spook him.

"He's right," Dick said numbly. "Look how broken I am."

Jason felt white-hot anger shoot through him. "Whatever he said to you was bullshit."

Dick looked at him sharply, wide-eyed.

Jason was beginning to see what Leslie was warning him about. His temper always ran thin, but it was especially hard to rein it in when he was sleep-deprived. "I meant," he said more gently, "that he's not a good person. He hurt you. And he picked words to hurt you too."

Dick didn't seem to understand, so he hurriedly continued, "look, Dick, it doesn't matter, okay? Whatever he said, whatever he did - I still care about you. You're my brother and I love you, and that's what's important, okay? Just like - like when the room is small so you focus on someone else, something else. When you think about whatever he did, you can remember that there's people who care about you. And it - it might not make the pain go away. But it'll make it easier."

Dick's gaze returned to the mirror. He looked at his face again, and brought an unsteady hand up to grab his bangs and move them out of his eyes.

His usually bright blue eyes were clouded over with tears and pain and emotion. And without the hair obscuring his face, Jason could see how much thinner and disfigured his face was. 

Dick made a guttural strangled noise in the back of his throat, like he was trying to hold back a sob or a whine or a scream.

“Dick,” Jason said helplessly.

His brother turned to him with a horrified expression that screamed _I hate this, I never wanted this, what the hell did I become??_ and Jason didn't know what to say.

“I'm sorry, Dick.” Jason scratched the back of his scalp, righteous anger on Dick’s behalf and shame for his own shortcomings burning in his chest. “It's - it sucks, I'm sorry.”

The hand in Dick’s hair white-knuckled, his body shaking.

“I -” Jason had run out of words. Hugs had seemed to help him? “Can I, uh, give you a hug?”

Dick looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack, and Jason was in no way going to push his brother if he needed space, but he finally jerked a nod. Jason slowly raised his arm to rest on Dick’s back, and when he didn’t react poorly, pulled him into a hug.

He’d been taller than Dick for years, now, and the Red Hood had a much sturdier build with a lot more muscular bulk than Nightwing did, as an acrobat. But with his brother’s massive weight loss he felt enormously larger. He hoped their size difference was comforting rather than distressing because he really, really didn’t want to trigger Dick by having him associate Jason with whoever had tortured him.

Dick was still tense; his breaths coming in awful, jagged shudders. He didn’t move at all, and Jason worried that Dick was too intimidated by him to hug back, but after a minute or so he felt Dick grab the back of his sweater and hang on for dear life. He almost smiled with relief, and then felt disgusted with himself. He shouldn’t be glad that Dick wanted his comfort. Finally being closer with his older brother was not worth the price of a year of torture.

He didn’t want this for Dick, he didn’t. Dick deserved better than what had happened to him. But selfishly, Jason was happy to be needed and wanted by his family.

He shoved the thoughts to the back of his mind. After Jason was sure Dick had calmed down, he said quietly, “Leslie’s gonna get you cleaned up now. And it won’t fix everything, but I guarantee it’ll feel better to have all that gunk off you.”

Jason started to pull away from the hug and Dick quickly yanked his arms back to his sides, releasing his grip on Jason’s hoodie like handfuls of hot coals.

He almost blurted out that Dick hadn’t done anything wrong, but then he wondered if that would just embarrass Dick who obviously did understand that Jason wouldn’t hurt him, and then he’d waited too long to be able to say anything without it being awkward, and Jason was overthinking everything but too tired to process anything. He needed a goddamn nap.

The hand holding seemed to keep Dick grounded and more at ease, so he offered it again to Dick, who promptly slipped his hand into Jason’s. That was a good sign. It meant he hadn’t managed to mess up anything too major yet.

He led Dick back to Leslie, who was waiting in the hallway, and then they walked into one of those official rooms with beds you could count on staying in for at least a few days, with more machines than a waiting room but less than a surgery.

Jason dimly wondered if the fact that he was forgetting the names of everything meant the stress of the situation was finally getting to him, or if he was just too exhausted.

He tried to blink the dryness from his eyes, desperately willing them to release some more saline so they would stop feeling like he’d poured sand into them.

Leslie got Dick settled in the bed and then brought Jason out of the room, out of range of Dick’s hearing. “Jason.”

“Uhuh.” He started bringing his hands up to his eyes to rub them, but aborted the movement abruptly when he realized they were covered in blood and sweat and dirt from holding his brother.

“Go wash your hands and then take a nap. Dick will be fine.”

“I’m not taking up another hospital bed and I’m not leaving Dick.”

“That’s fine -”

“I’m sitting in that chair. Right beside him.”

“Jason -”

“You can’t stop me.” He brought his gaze up to her and prepared to give his best bat-glare, but something in her eyes told him it wouldn’t be necessary.

“I’m not trying to stop you.” Leslie looked back into his eyes just as intensely. “I’m trying to tell you that you did well, and that you can relax now.”

Jason felt stupid. “Oh. Sure, yeah.”

Washing his hands felt surreal. Here he was, able to simply wash off his brother’s blood and tears and watch them get sucked down the drain, but Dick was stuck with the pain and scars and memories, maybe forever, or at least for a long time, until he healed.

And then Jason remembered that there was stuff he couldn’t just flippantly wash away, either. He still had crooked scars from the crowbar, plus a nice thick Y incision mark from his autopsy. Had panic attacks, sometimes, if he got stuck in a place that was a bit too narrow and dark like a coffin, or smelt like burning skin and charred debris from a warehouse explosion. He hadn’t even been able to force himself to go to Tim’s funeral, back when they’d thought he was dead, because there’d been a thunderstorm, and after crawling out of his own grave, he’d decided he never wanted to be in a cemetery while it rained again.

He looked up at the mirror, at the white roots of his bangs starting to grow out. He always ended up dyeing it to match the rest of his hair, so he didn’t have to stare at the reminder that his life had been stolen from him and then unnaturally brought back with a glowing green pool.

He’d had his fair share of trauma, too.

He walked back to Dick’s room. Maybe he wasn’t as ill-equipped to help as he’d previously thought. After all, he’d found a way to push past the call for revenge that thrummed in his blood thanks to Bruce being as emotionally constipated as always, the Lazarus Pit madness, and the rage and hurt of being replaced. He understood pain and he understood fear and anger and shame, and maybe that’s all he needed to help his brother.

It made something loosen in his chest, to realize that.

He knocked softly on the doorframe and warned Dick that he was coming in, and collapsed into the uncomfortable yet oddly comforting padded hospital chair beside the bed. Dick looked settled and relaxed enough that Jason finally gave his eyelids permission to close.

“I’m just gonna, take a quick nap, yeah? Wake me if you need anything.” He pried his eyes open long enough to register Dick give him a nod. “I mean it. Anything at all, I don’t mind, honest.”

He was dead to the world a few seconds later, dreaming of crowbars and doors opening and Dick’s panicked screams. The cold tear tracks on his face right before he died, his body too weak to keep warm. Alfred stitching his arm up for the first time after he’d reconciled with the family. Dick huddled in the corner of the phone booth. Jason cowering under the kitchen table while his parents screamed at each other. Dick begging Jason to kill for him.

His mom holding him on her lap, rocking back and forth, kissing his forehead until he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got so many lovely comments on the last chapter, thank you!! You guys are so sweet.


	6. Chapter 6

It was both much easier and surprisingly harder for Dick to move in with him than he'd imagined.

A month ago, Jason had been a little worried that he'd start to feel a bit stifled and exhausted from being patient and gentle and on-deck to support Dick 24/7. And while it was tiring, he found to his surprise that he didn't regret it. Not once. It was upsetting, sometimes, to see Dick so wounded and hurt, but Jason didn't find himself frustrated and craving space like he usually did after an encounter with the batfamily. Dick needed his help and Jason really did love his brother, and he was willing to help him. It was as simple as that.

What was infinitely more complicated than he'd expected, however, was the list of instructions that Leslie had given him after Dick was released from the hospital. Dick actually didn't have any seriously life-threatening injuries (Leslie had whispered to Jason, out of Dick's earshot, that in her professional opinion it seemed like the man had tortured Dick as painfully as possible without injuring him seriously enough to risk death. Like he'd wanted to keep Dick alive as long as possible, so that he could continue to torment Dick as long as he desired). So while Jason didn't have to tend to anything crazy like amputated limbs, he still had to do stuff like make sure the stitched up wounds were clean and the burns hadn't become infected. Leslie had also made a meal plan for him to follow, to make sure that Dick's underfed body was given the right amount of nutrients and calories at the correct intervals of time. But even that was simple compared to all the things he had to make sure Dick understood.

Simple things like reminding him to go to the bathroom.

Not just pouring him a cup of tea, but giving him an option of two or three flavours, to remind Dick that he was allowed to choose things for himself.

Convincing him to sleep in Jason's bed every night, while Jason took the couch. Dick always naturally gravitated to curling up on the floor against the wall, and some nights Jason spent half an hour convincing Dick that he deserved to sleep in a bed and no, Jason wouldn't punish him for it. Yes, Jason liked sleeping on the couch. No, he wasn't going to hit Dick in the morning for sleeping in the bed.

Explaining that he was allowed to put in whatever DVD he wanted and use the remote himself. If he wanted the volume higher, he didn't have to ask Jason first, he could just use the remote himself.

Reminding him that he could stand up and go sit on any of the chairs in the room that he liked. He could decide to go over to the couch and sit on it if he wanted, instead of waiting for Jason to tell him what to do.

Leslie's list gave examples of things he could do to slowly give Dick his autonomy back, but she'd made it clear that a lot of the time Jason would have to improvise. Jason hadn't realized just how many daily things required decision making and doing the task without explicit permission from anyone, until he'd had to take care of Dick, and either do everything for him or keep pushing Dick to decide for himself.

It wasn't fair, that Dick felt like he deserved to live like that. It made him angry enough to want to spend a few hours at the gym with a punching bag, the entire night beating the shit out of thugs on patrol, and then spend the early morning hours with the punching bag again. In fact, he probably would have done that if he hadn't promised Dick to always be back by a certain time, Leslie's list reminding him that routine and consistency was extremely important for recovery, and keeping promises even more so.

With that in mind, he returned to his apartment right away instead of stopping by a burger joint after patrol like he sometimes did. He knocked on the door, even though he had a key in his pocket. "Hey, it's Jason, can I come in?"

He waited patiently, listening to Dick's feet pad across the linoleum. Smiled at the peephole in the door, knowing Dick was probably checking to make sure it was Jason. Listened to the fumbling noise of the door being unlocked and unlatched and the knob being turned. This was progress, because the first time Dick had heard Jason at the door, he'd been unable to move, and stayed frozen in a panic-induced flashback for hours. So the fact that Dick was able to get up and open the door himself? Jason was proud of his brother.

The door slid open, and Jason waited a few seconds before stepping inside, allowing Dick time and space to feel safe, and not like Jason was barging in. He let Dick close the door, too, and lock it himself.

"Thanks, Dick," he said, kicking off his boots. He headed to the small kitchen to get a drink and maybe something to eat. "How was your night?"

"Good." Dick followed him into the kitchen. Jason was used to how quietly he spoke now, but it still made him sad that his loudly social older brother felt like he had to talk so softly. At least his voice didn't sound like he'd swallowed a cheese grater anymore, now that he wasn't so dehydrated and the bruises on his neck had mostly healed.

"Yeah? Did you watch any TV tonight?" Jason opened the fridge and grabbed some leftover Chinese food from a few nights ago.

"Blue Planet." Dick watched Jason turn the takeout container upside down onto a plate.

"That's one of the Planet Earth ones, right?" Jason was fairly sure he was right, but he wanted to get Dick talking more. Besides, he'd watched so many nature documentaries with his brother lately that they were all beginning to blend together. He slid his plate into the microwave.

"Yeah." Dick ran a hand through his hair. It was still long and uncut. Jason was going to have to figure out a way to convince Dick to see a hairdresser, or figure out how to cut hair himself.

Jason made another trip to the fridge, looking for a Gatorade. "Did you watch the one with the coral?"

"No, just the first few episodes."

"Nice." Jason found his Gatorade. He was about to make another stab at conversation, but he realized Dick looked like he wanted to ask him something, so he waited. He cracked open the lid of his drink and took a sip, and watched his plate spin around and around. Sometimes Dick never found the courage to speak up and Jason had to prompt him, but Dick was slowly getting better at voicing his thoughts.

"Did -" Dick cut himself off. "How was patrol?"

"Good, pretty good," Jason said. "Stopped some weapons dealers at the docks."

Dick nodded, and hesitated. "Did - did you need more time?"

"More time?" Ironically, the microwave chose that moment to finish heating the food and beeped twice. Jason took his plate out. "What do you mean?"

"To finish." He averted his eyes. "You said you'd always be back by two, but on patrol - sometimes, I know, you need a bit more time to wrap things up. It's okay, if you need to stay out longer, I understand, Jason, I don't want to -" he swallowed. "I don't want to bother you, I'm sorry."

"Whoa, hey." Jason set his food down. "It's not a bother. You're not a bother, okay?"

Dick didn't look convinced.

"Can I give you a hug?" He still asked, he always asked; always gave Dick a choice. Even though he knew that Dick would always say yes. Dick had always been fond of hugs, but since being tortured for a year, it was like he needed them with the same desperation that his starved body had needed food.

Dick nodded and Jason folded him into a hug. Dick hugged back, now, unafraid of holding Jason too tightly, like he had been in the beginning. Jason had his back to the microwave, so he couldn't see the clock, but he knew enough time had gone past that his food would be cold again.

He found that he didn't really care.

"Dick, it's okay, I don't mind at all. Even before we shared an apartment I usually came home around now." Well, it was usually closer to 3:00 AM, but it wasn't hard to come back an hour earlier. He found himself looking forward to watching TV for an hour with Dick before bed, instead of freezing his ass off in the early morning hours when there was usually less crime anyway. "You're not a bother, I swear."

Dick nodded. Jason could hear his forehead scrape against the body armour on his chest.

"How about you pick something to watch, and I'll change out of my Red Hood gear, and we can watch it together."

"Okay." Dick pulled away from Jason enough to look behind his back at the plate of food. "Sorry your food got cold."

Jason laughed. "It's fine, Dick, I'll just start the microwave again. You didn't do anything wrong, okay?"

Dick smiled. "Okay."

Jason gave Dick a squeeze and released him from the hug. As Dick walked into the other room and Jason proceeded to reheat his food, he mused over the fact that he'd probably hugged Dick more in the past several weeks than he'd hugged everyone else in his entire life. And as much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, it was something he probably needed, almost as much as Dick. He'd always been less... stable, without people in his life to ground him, like the Outlaws, and even the batfamily, when Bruce wasn't being an insufferable jackass and Jason managed not to screw up too badly. Even though he hated what Dick had gone through, it was nice to be needed. Not just loved unconditionally but _wanted_ unconditionally.

He changed into the sweats he always wore to bed, and brought his food to the couch where Dick was already curled up with a blanket. Dick smiled at him, and Jason motioned with his hand for Dick to scooch closer to him. "And I know you want some of my food even though you could just heat some up yourself, so here," Jason smirked.

Dick laughed sheepishly and took a piece of chicken. He hit play and nibbled at the food.

The fish swam across the screen, and a few minutes later, Jason noticed his brother was still trying to make the first piece of food last. "You know you can have more, if you want."

Dick blinked, a little sleepily. "It's okay, it's yours."

"Why do you think I heated up the rest of the leftovers? It's for you too, dumbass."

Dick studied his face to make sure Jason was teasing him, and then popped the rest of the piece of chicken in his mouth. He grabbed three of the spring rolls and let his head drop onto Jason's shoulder. "Thanks," he murmured, and they both knew it wasn't just for the food.

"Of course, Dick." And Jason meant it from the bottom of his heart.

Somewhere around the third episode, Jason felt Dick drift asleep. He considered waking him up and moving him to the bed, and wondered if that was the type of consistency his brother needed, but-

But he was tired and comfortable and really didn't want to move, and he was already half-asleep, and Dick felt safe enough to fall asleep with someone else in the same room as him, and he didn't have the heart to wake him up, so Jason slowly turned down the volume and then turned the TV completely off, letting his own eyes shut. This wouldn't last forever: Dick would get better and move on, and move back out on his own, or Jason would screw up and Dick would realize he was better off staying with Wally or Donna or Tim or Bruce. And Jason would be left alone again, like he always was.

But right now, Jason let himself forget about the future and enjoy the present, falling asleep on the couch with his brother; both of them happier than they'd been in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember reading Batman Black Mirror, and Dick saying that he watched nature documentaries to unwind, because after spending all night seeing the worst criminals Gotham had to offer he really, really didn't want to watch TV and see more people. I figured that after such a traumatic experience he'd want to see dramas or violent action scenes even less, so Blue Planet was perfect. (Plus I really love that show.)
> 
> Anyway, I'm so glad you guys are still enjoying this! It always makes my day to see the kudos and comments. Updates might be sporadic but I'm happy with the outline for the rest of the fic, so yes, there is an actual direction to the story and a planned ending, don't you worry.


	7. Chapter 7

It had now been 48 days since the phone booth, and Dick was pouring himself some tea. Jason was laying on the couch, half-asleep, waiting for Dick to come back so they could start their nightly TV ritual. He hadn't bothered to take off his Red Hood gear, and his holstered guns were digging into his legs, but he couldn't bring himself to care enough to change. He was tired. Sue him.

"Do you want me to make you anything?" Dick called from the other room. Jason smiled to himself, glad that Dick was finally feeling more comfortable with raising his voice a little.

"I'm fine, thanks, Dick." He brought his fingers up to the domino mask over his eyes, starting to work it loose from his skin. He was still feeling too lazy to go change his clothes, but ripping the mask off didn't require him to get up. The skin stung as he peeled it off, making him wonder if he'd used too much adhesive.

His brother walked in from the kitchen with the slow, steady gait of someone trying really hard not to spill something. Jason, realizing he was sprawled over the entire couch, dragged himself upright so that Dick would have somewhere to sit.

Dick had just put his mug down on the coffee table when something outside smashed through the lock on the apartment window.

Without really thinking, Jason found himself springing to his feet and unholstering one of his guns; stepping between Dick and the window. He felt Dick grab his free hand from behind as someone pulled the window open and rolled inside. He clicked the safety off. The intruder started standing up from his roll on the ground and Jason almost fired a warning shot before his brain caught up to his reflexes and he recognized who it was.

"Okay, Jason, listen, we need to talk, and -" Red Robin cut himself off abruptly as he stood up from his roll on the ground. Tim's eyes widened behind the mask. "Dick?"

Jason felt Dick's other hand clutch the back of his jacket like a frightened child. He scowled. Damn Tim for making Dick feel unsafe in the one place he'd started to feel normal in.

"Hi, Tim." Jason's tone was low and dangerous and he let his anger and frustration seep through his words. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I -" Tim's head spun back and forth between Dick and Jason. Jason couldn't see his eyes behind the domino, but he would guess that Tim's eyes were darting around, taking in Dick's overgrown bangs and heavily scarred skin and the protective rage in Jason's eyes. For all that the kid planned ahead, this was evidently not something he'd expected.

"You broke into my apartment, Tim. I want to know why." He raised his eyebrows and smirked without humour. "Or is that too difficult for you to answer?"

Tim seemed to yank himself away from his momentary shock and visibly straightened. "No, I dropped by a safehouse that I knew you used often because I knew you'd just ignore me if I talked to you on patrol. I thought the chances of you ditching me were significantly less if you were already home."

"Uhuh. You're right. If I'd seen you out and about your own merry business in Gotham I would have just given you the slip." He shoved his gun into his holster so he could gesture angrily. "Breaking into my place, though, I wouldn't have let you chase me out of my own goddamn apartment. I would have just kicked your ass out the window."

Tim glared. "I just wanted to have a conversation with-"

"Oh, shut up." Jason could feel Dick's fingers digging into his skin and he was downright furious at Tim for causing his brother so much anxiety. "Shut the hell up. You don't get to do as you please and then act like I'm in the wrong. I'm sick and tired of-"

"If you'd let me actually _explain_ myself, Jason-"

"Maybe if you'd knocked on the door like a regular person? Instead of pulling a Batman in the most infuriating-"

"Not everything is about you, Jason," Tim snapped, "and contrary to what you think, the world doesn't revolve around you and your feud with Bruce, and if you'd take your head out of your ass long enough to-"

"Tim?" 

Jason and Tim froze, turning to Dick, who had tear tracks running down his cheeks.

"Where were you?" His voice was quiet and shaky.

The room was silent except for Dick's breaths hitching faster and faster.

_"WHERE WERE YOU?"_ he screamed brokenly. "Huh? Where were you when I - when I was taken and _tortured for a year?_ Why didn't you look for me? Why -"

Dick was sobbing, but not the kind of tears he'd shed when he felt broken and alone and needed Jason's comfort. He'd finally recovered enough to not just feel upset and afraid all the time, and he was genuinely, wholeheartedly angry, and his chest heaved with all the rage he'd been too scared to let out before.

"I was beaten and stabbed and electrocuted for almost a year! He _melted part of my face off_. He-" Dick released his grip on Jason so he could shove his sleeve up and expose the still-healing flesh. "He _burnt half my fucking skin off._ And I kept hoping someone would come and save me, that my own _family of detectives_ would find me. Because I didn't know where I was, I didn't even-"

He gave a shuddering sigh, and all the tension and energy left his body. He slumped against Jason. "I never even saw his face. He wore a mask, always, and he - he could be anyone. Anyone in Gotham could be -"

Jason wrapped his arm loosely around Dick's side. His brother leaned further into the embrace while Tim and Jason looked at each other, horrified.

Tim removed his mask. He was tearing up slightly, although that could have simply been from the pull of the spirit gum adhesive by his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Tim said quietly. "At first I thought you were just busy, and when you didn't reply to my texts for a few months I figured that you just chose not to. I know I forced my way into the family - Bruce didn't want me after Jason died, and Damian still hates me, and." He looked down at his gloved hands, padded in the right spots to protect his fingers from the impact of hand to hand combat. "Bruce and Barbara weren't acting worried, and they keep tabs on everyone so I figured nothing was seriously wrong, and even if you really were in trouble you'd call someone other than me to have your back."

Tim swallowed. "I was travelling the multiverse with Young Justice, and about a month and a half ago I suddenly realized that no one had heard from you in months, and -" Tim frowned a little in confusion. "I can't even explain it. I kept thinking that it wasn't important, and that I shouldn't bother you, but suddenly I knew that something was wrong. And as soon as I came back to our dimension I tried to track you down. That's why I'm here, actually. I thought, if you weren't around Bludhaven or the rest of the family or the Titans, maybe Jason would at least have an idea where you'd gone."

Jason was very, very tired of the Bats only coming to him when they'd exhausted all their other options first, but hey. At least Tim had an actual reason for barging into his living room, and it wasn't even about screaming that Jason's morals made him just as bad as all the other Gotham psychos.

Dick made a sort of pained noise, and Tim jerked his gaze up from his hands. "I'm not making excuses for myself, Dick. I own up to it. You've always been the best big brother, but I let my insecurities tell me what was and wasn't important and I let you down."

Dick didn't respond; just soaked in Jason's support while Tim stood awkwardly by the open window.

“I’m so sorry,” Tim said sadly after a few minute's silence. “And I’m not asking you to forgive me. I know it’s easier not to, and sometimes that’s the only way to keep your sanity. I know Jason tolerates me now but he’s never really forgiven me for replacing him.”

Before Jason could launch a retort he continued, “and I’ve never forgiven Boomerang for killing my dad. Damian still wishes he was next in line to be Batman, and he’ll always hold that against me. I get it, and I understand. It’s okay, Dick, if you don’t want to talk to me.”

Tim fiddled with the mask in his hands as Jason stared at him, shocked. Had Tim always accepted this type of blame so easily? Was this just something he was saying because it seemed like the right thing to say, or was he actually - did he actually-

Just how much had Tim quietly shouldered over the years? He remembered, now, that Tim had tried to explain how he’d only become Robin to help Bruce get over Jason’s death, and how he’d done his duty for Batman, for Gotham, and never expected anything in return. How much had Tim overextended himself, picking up everyone else’s slack just because he was the only one who could? Did anyone thank him, or did they just give him shit for sticking his nose into their business?

He wanted to be angry at Tim for barging in, dammit. He didn’t want to be sorry for him.

Eventually Dick pushed himself away from Jason and looked towards Tim. "Did you find anything out about him?"

Tim shook his head apologetically. "No. I wouldn't have known who to search for, and I thought it was more important to focus on finding you first, instead of chasing after random guesses on who could have been responsible for your disappearance."

Dick didn't seem all that surprised, giving a small nod. "And if you couldn’t find any easy leads, the rest of us wouldn’t have much luck either.”

Tim stilled, seeming unsure on whether it was a compliment or an acceptance of his apology or something else.

Dick ran his fingers through his hair, pulling his bangs off his face while he gathered his thoughts. “I’m angry, Tim, and I’m hurt, but. I don’t- I don’t want-”

He looked down at the arm whose sleeve he’d pushed up, layered with marks of abuse. Long slashes and burns, white scars from older wounds and soft pink more recent ones, deep grazes and poorly healed welts all overlapping. The placement almost looked strategic, so that there were hardly any unmarred spots on his skin. So that when he’d been locked in his cell, there was hardly any part of him that didn’t ache and throb and _hurt_.

“He stole almost a year from me.” Dick looked down at his bare feet. Most of his toes that had broken were healing straight, at least. “He took me from my family, he took my freedom. He ripped the Nightwing suit off me. He took so much and all he gave me was pain.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve been free almost two months and he’s still taking. I’m still afraid to do everything normal, and my body is still healing from everything, and I’m so sick of it.”

Jason wanted to hug Dick tight enough to squeeze out all the trauma and pain. But he’d never hug him without asking for Dick’s consent first, and he didn’t want to interrupt his brother from saying everything he needed to say.

“I think I’m going to be angry and scared and sad for a long time. Maybe not forever, but -”

He turned to Jason. “I want to get better. I want to see Damian, and Alfred, and the rest of the family, and-” he smiled shyly -”I want to be Nightwing again.”

Jason blinked, and Dick mistook his lack of reply for disagreement, hurrying to add: “and I don’t mean right now, obviously, I’ll need to train and build some muscle back, and I’ll probably need shitloads of therapy, and I know I won’t be able to patrol alone, because I get triggered so fucking easily and I’ll need someone to watch my back, at least at first, but I just, I want to get better, I…”

He trailed off and looked at Jason desperately. “Please?”

And Jason had never meant to disagree with Dick, he’d just been dumbfounded that his brother had been waiting for permission to be Nightwing again. This coming from the one who’d invented Robin, who’d been so fiercely independent that he’d walked away from Gotham and become Nightwing, who’d had the authority to take Robin from Tim and give it to Damian. That same Dick Grayson was begging for Jason to allow him something he’d made himself, a costume that he’d already earned; a personna that wasn’t just a mask but also an integral part of him.

“Dick, of course,” he said, once his mouth and tongue figured out how to work again. “I’d never stop you from that.” Jason felt like he had to make that clear. “I’m not your guardian or jailor, I’m not going to make rules that you aren’t allowed to break. I’m your brother, okay? I’ll support you and protect you but I’ll never tell you what you can and can’t do.”

Dick threw his arms around Jason in thanks, and as Jason hugged him back, he realized Dick had already started to regain some weight. His shoulders didn’t feel like just skin and bones and scar tissue. Thank God for Leslie Thompkins and her meal plan that was slowly feeding his body back from malnutrition.

“You’re already so much stronger than you were,” Jason said softly. “And I know you can get strong enough to be Nightwing again. I’ll help you, okay? You won’t have to do it alone.”

Dick nodded, arms gripping Jason tighter. Jason was so, so proud of his brother, of the progress he’d already made and the progress he hadn’t yet. Tim’s entrance had triggered him, but Dick had even used that to realize how much he wanted to be better and move forward.

It reminded him of one of the few times when he was Robin that he’d actually talked with Nightwing without them screaming at each other or Nightwing screaming at Batman. During a lull on patrol he’d squatted on top of a gargoyle, while Nightwing did a handstand on a nearby window ledge, cheerfully recounting the Kryptonian myth that had inspired his moniker.

Nightwing. The great rebuilder. The catalyst of change. Eternally reborn to start anew.

His brother had been broken. He’d been tortured until almost entirely losing his sense of self, but he was healing, and he’d rediscovered that spark of hope that had always lit him up from the inside.

When Dick pulled away from the hug, his body no longer had that hunched in, cautious, hesitant posture it’d had for the past several weeks. It wasn’t exactly the fearlessness and poised-for-action spirit that Nightwing posed with, but something more raw and honest, instead. Still hurting but stronger; more confident.

“Tim,” he said, voice a little unsteady with the confidence of heart he was unused to. “There room in Gotham for one more vigilante?”

Tim grinned back. “If his name is Nightwing, I think we have an opening.”

Dick looked so grateful at Tim’s casual response, and Jason hadn’t realized how much his brother must have ached to have some semblance of normality in his life.

“Swing by the batcave whenever you want,” Tim said, adopting a slightly more serious tone and edging towards the window. “I won’t tell Bruce and the others anything until you’ve decided when, how, and what you want to say to them.”

“Thanks, Tim,” Dick replied with a level of energy he wasn’t used to having. “See you soon,” he gave an infinitesimal pause, “little brother.”

Tim brightened at the unspoken forgiveness. “Looking forward to it. Sorry for the window, Jason!”

“Yeah, you’re paying for it!” Jason called out, only mildly annoyed, as Tim dove out the window. “You cheeky little bastard!”

And Dick laughed, loud and clear and unafraid and happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I have to add a disclaimer, that I'm not trying to push one or the other of the characters as being _right_. Some people write fics showing how Jason's point of view is way more valid than Bruce's, or try to prove a thesis that Batman is wrong for endangering children, or try to promote how much happier and healthier Jason would be if he stopped making his own path and stuck with his family, even if he's sometimes tempted to pull the trigger. There's nothing wrong with that and some of my favourite fics involve those themes, but just so you know for this story, I've just decided to write them all as imperfect people trying to do the right thing. Draw your own conclusions as you want. But like for example if I have Jason say or think something about another character it's because that's what he would think given his life and experiences, not necessarily that that's what I think of the character.
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason and Damian make a better team than either of them realize.

“Todd?”

“What,” Jason said flatly, not bothering to turn around from where he was sitting. He usually disliked how tedious stakeouts were, but the arrival of his youngest brother had him craving the peace and quiet of the previous hour. He braced himself for some sort of ridiculous insult to his costume or methods of crime-fighting. Maybe even a challenge to his honour, because Damian wanted to burn off some energy in a spar and didn’t know how to ask nicely.

“Why does Grayson flinch every time Father walks into the room?”

Dammit.

Jason had his own theories about that, with the most likely being that Dick still wanted his tormentor dead and felt guilty about it. His brother hadn’t mentioned it again after Jason had promised to do whatever Dick needed to feel safe, but Jason doubted it was because he’d forgotten the conversation. Dick most likely felt tremendous guilt even thinking about it, much less talking about it, and didn’t want to bring it up again.

And even though living with Jason for four months had helped him heal a lot, and he trusted Jason absolutely, he still acted so raw and hurt sometimes. Just last week he’d dropped a mug and even before it had shattered on the ground he’d screamed and apologized and begged Jason not to hurt him, even though Jason was his brother. His younger brother. Who despite taking care of him for months had never once tried to exert control over him.

But Bruce? The Batman? He was Dick’s dad. Having raised Dick with zero margin for error, Dick was used to being grounded from patrol as Robin when he made even minor mistakes. Bruce was such a control freak that he’d eventually fired Dick from Robin for disobeying his orders. They’d mended their relationship since then, but that still had to sting. And with Batman being such a staunch upholder of the no-kill rule, and the memories of a year of torture fresh in Dick’s mind, he was probably terrified of what Batman would do to him when he found out.

So. How to tell your younger brother that his father scared the shit out of his oldest brother so badly that he got triggered when he so much as entered the room?

Solution: you don’t.

“Well,” Jason turned to give Damian his full attention, “Dick is still traumatized. It probably reminds him of-”

“Yes, doors opening is one of his triggers,” Damian huffed with exasperation. “Don’t patronize me, Todd. Drake has made an exhaustive file on all subjects and actions to avoid around him and I have memorized it. But Grayson is used to the rest of us now, and he doesn’t usually get triggered by Drake entering a room, or Cain putting the belt of her uniform on, or even me training with weapons. But he does, when Father does any of those things.”

Jason should be proud of the little brat for being this emotionally sensitive, but in this case it caused a lot of problems. It wasn’t his place to tell Damian what Dick had confided to him in secret.

“Maybe he still hasn’t forgiven Bruce for not rescuing him,” Jason suggested. Even though it wasn’t the whole truth, it was still very likely that Dick held his adopted dad, the world’s greatest detective, to a higher standard than the rest of the family.

“But he said he had forgiven us,” Damian countered. “And then he said we needed to-” Damian made air quotes, and Jason was oddly pleased the kid was starting to use informal mannerisms in conversation- ”stop looking so damn sad and guilty around him, he was done looking at the past and wanted to move forward, and he couldn’t do that if we kept looking at him with pity and regret.”

Shit. Time to spin a very convincing white lie that was almost identical to the truth, but wouldn’t betray Dick’s trust or damage Damian’s perception of his father too much.

“He was abused for nearly a year, by a man who had complete control over him. Dick’s birth parents are dead. The only other man alive who still has that much authority over him is…”

“Father,” Damian breathed, looking faintly sick. Jason nodded grimly. He hoped it wouldn’t make the kid feel too awkward around Bruce - and since when had he started trying to protect Bruce? - but it was still a better compromise than exposing Dick’s secret.

Damian was still, the cape of the Robin uniform fluttering quietly as the breeze swept the top of the building. Jason wanted to go back to the mundane silence of his stakeout, but unfortunately he had to play caring big brother first.

This was supposed to be Nightwing’s job. But Dick Grayson was not in the position to carry anything or anyone other than his own trauma right now.

“It’s not Dick’s fault,” Jason said. And as loath as he was to admit it, “it’s not really Bruce’s, either. And it’s definitely not yours. So don’t feel like you have to fix it. Dick’s in therapy, and he’s getting better every day, and he won’t be like this forever. Just be patient and don’t bring it up with him. I’m pretty sure he realizes what’s happening, so there’s no need to make him feel bad about it.”

Jason wished Damian would scowl or mutter something acidic; something normal. He didn’t know how to handle him like this.

“Damian?”

The kid stood there rigidly, and Jason was reminded of just how young he was.

“Robin.” That got Damian’s attention, at least. “It’s not your fault, okay?”

“Maybe it is.” Damian clenched his gauntleted fists. “Robin is supposed to protect Batman, and he was my Batman. And I didn’t prevent that monster from taking him.”

Damian dropped into a squat, arms resting on his knees. “A few months ago I was with the Teen Titans, and I suddenly realized how long it had been since Grayson had talked with me. So I came back to Gotham, to see if anything was wrong.”

A few months ago, Jason had been carrying Dick’s damaged body out of a phone booth.

“I should have realized much sooner the significant amount of time he had been absent.”

Damian had a point. Jason couldn’t help but notice the irony of him only realizing something was wrong at the same time Dick had finally gained his freedom. “It’s not your fault that he’s flinching still,” Jason amended.

“But it _is_ Father’s,” Damian snarled. And Jason’s eyebrows shot up because, okay, he knew Damian and Bruce didn’t have the most peaceful relationship, but he was under the impression that Damian still idolized Bruce. “I will go confront him, and make him see that-”

“Woah, hey, no,” Jason interrupted him. The last thing Dick needed was family drama to either make him feel unsafe, or make him feel responsible for mediating. “Yelling at him won’t fix anything. I’ll talk with him, Damian. Don’t worry about it.”

“Tt.” Damian looked almost offended. “What good will you do, Todd? The last time you argued with him on something, it was after you tried to murder the Penguin, and he beat you into the-”

The boys looked at each other in horror.

“Is that why?” Damian whispered. “Is that why he is scared of only Father?”

“No,” Jason retorted weakly. “No, Bruce would never hurt Dick like - like that. He didn’t hurt _me_ like that. It wasn’t - abuse, I was just, resisting arrest, I knew the rules and I broke them anyway-”

“Yes,” Damian agreed. “But he has hit Grayson before too.”

“You mean like in sparring. Right?” Jason felt like the earth had started spinning on its axis the wrong way.

Damian looked at the roof uncomfortably. “Do you remember the Court of Owls?”

“Undead assassins, rich Gothamite illuminati, that whole Gray Son bullshit.” Jason was a little confused at the change of subject. “Your point?”

“I was looking through the batcave security footage, and-”

“Why?”

Damian looked at Jason exasperatedly. “What?”

“Why were you looking through the footage?”

“If you must know, I was trying to find blackmail on Drake.”

Jason smirked. Damian flushed slightly and scowled, and Jason was relieved to see the familiar expression on his face. “Sorry, continue.”

“Father and Grayson were talking about William Cobb, and Grayson was angry that he hadn’t been told about his great-grandfather sooner, and Father punched a tooth out of his mouth that had the Court’s symbol on it, to prove that he was supposed to become a Talon.”

All amusement dropped from his face. “Wait, he-” Jason could hardly wrap his head around what Damian was saying. “He strategically hit a certain part of his jaw so that a specific tooth would get knocked out? Why the hell would he not just pull it out like regular people do at the dentist’s?”

Damian didn’t answer.

“So Bruce knew about the tooth, and hit him hard enough to knock it out instead of pulling it out normally, because they were arguing and he was angry?” That didn’t sound right. That didn’t sound like Bruce. He could be infuriating and self-righteous, but he wasn’t - he didn’t -

He was supposed to be better than Willis.

Damian just shrugged. “I think it was only that one time. But I’m sure Grayson still remembers it.”

Jason saw red. “Son of a bitch,” he growled. “I’m going to kill Bruce the next time I see him.”

This time Damian was the one telling him to back off. “Todd, it was one time, and Father had recently been captured and hurt by the Court. He’d been starved, and the water he’d been given was drugged. I read the case file.”

“It still happened! Doesn’t matter if it was one time, two times; hundreds of times.” Every time Catherine was high and not lucid enough to feel pain, and Willis had come home and needed to work out his anger on someone who wasn’t already unconscious. “It’s still not okay.”

Damian shrugged again, and Jason could tell that he was looking at the situation all wrong. He could see the cause and effect of Bruce’s actions back then hurting Dick’s headspace right now, but he didn’t see that the action itself had been wrong.

He supposed growing up with Talia as a mother would do that to a kid. Jason had enough first-hand experience with the woman to guess that being raised by her would not have been easy.

“Well, there you go,” Jason finished lamely. “That’s why he keeps flinching, but only for Bruce.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Todd,” Damian said stiffly, standing up like he was about to leave. Jason felt terrible, like he’d broken something irreparable. Robin reached for the grapple gun on his belt dispassionately.

“Don’t thank me, return the favour,” Jason said on impulse. “I’m on a stakeout, trying not to fall asleep before the buyer shows up.”

“Then I will stay and prevent you from sleeping through the exchange.” Damian was trying very hard to make it sound like he was only doing Jason a favour, and didn’t want to stay with his older brother in the least. “Tt. You should be able to resist the temptation of sleep by now.”

Jason rolled his eyes. There was that good ol’ Damian snark he’d missed. “Yes. Whatever.”

Damian reflexively started arguing, “in the League of Assassins, I was raised to-”

“Yeah, yeah, you grew up with hardcore ninja training,” Jason responded on auto-pilot. “You aren’t special. I trained with the League too, you know.”

They bickered mindlessly, neither of them trying to actually hurt the other. It was normal. Comforting. Much easier than awkwardly sitting in silence or trying to talk about anything serious.

After waiting for upwards of two hours, Jason was beginning to suspect that neither party was going to show up. His source had been unsure what day this week the exchange was happening, so it was likely enough that nothing would happen tonight. He knew it wasn’t a waste of time, and that it would be worth it in the end, but his muscles twitched from inactivity.

And then suddenly there was movement. Five men, lightly armed. Piece of cake. He nudged Damian’s shoulder.

“I see them.” Damian grinned eagerly, teeth bared. Jason wondered what it said about his brother that he actually looked scarier when he smiled than when he frowned. “How are we taking them down?”

Jason felt his own lips turning up at the corners. “Well, we’re high enough above them that smashing through the window will have a nice effect. Glass will spray everywhere, there’s a lot of lights behind us so we’ll be almost silhouetted; there are no civilians on site that we have to be careful around.”

Damian shot a line from his grapple in response. “Ready when you are.”

“I don’t see any machine guns or anything fancy.” Jason anchored his slightly off from Damian’s, so their lines wouldn’t tangle. “Stay sharp, though.”

Robin snorted. “It’s ludicrous that you think-”

“Now!” Jason launched himself off the building, welcoming the adrenaline rush as he swung, wind in his hair, aiming at the window feet first, braced for impact so none of his bones would break as he hit the glass the window shattered perfectly and the shards and slivers scattered like confetti as he ducked into a roll to absorb the impact. Robin landed beside him a couple seconds later; Red Hood had already drawn both his guns and fired at the first surprised thug, he heard a batarang whistle past and a second guy screamed, dropping his gun as the blade sliced through his hand. The other three were clustered close together - amateurs - only drawing their guns now that they’d been attacked, but Jason was already charging towards them, trusting Damian to take care of the two already injured.

The man on the left was almost ready to fire so Jason pistol whipped him first, then used his unconscious body as a shield to shoot the last two guys. Nowhere vital because he was avoiding killing for Dick Grayson’s sake, since an angry Batman breathing down his neck was not an environment conducive for recovery.

He glanced over at Damian who was launching a flying kick at the first man he’d shot, who had been trying to push himself up off the ground. The smack of Damian’s combat boot to the poor guy’s face resounded through the room as Jason did a quick sweep of the room with infrared, to see if there were any more assailants than the original five.

No one. They were in the clear. “Nice work, Robin.”

“Tt. Anyone could have taken down these amateurs.” Robin nudged one of the unconscious men with his toe. “They aren’t even wearing kevlar.”

“Well, it’s nice for a change. I’d be perfectly fine with more idiots like these and less escaped Arkham inmates.” Jason pushed a button on his mask that left a pre-recorded anonymous tip for the GCPD to come pick up the five guys.

Heh. Five Guys. He was really in the mood for a burger. “Wanna go grab some food? I don’t have to be back at my apartment for another hour.”

“Only if there is a vegetarian option.” If Damian was trying to sound disinterested, it wasn’t working.

Jason hit the comm in his ear. “Hey, Tim, where’s the nearest Batburger?”

“I did not say you could invite Drake!” Damian hissed.

“Well, I was just going to use him as a Yellow Pages, but I can invite him too if you really want.” He laughed when Damian scowled even deeper.

Tim’s voice crackled over the line, “I can’t tell if you’re really just too lazy to use Google Maps yourself or if you couldn’t think of another way to invite me.”

“Well if you’re going to be a smartass about it, I can uninvite you,” Jason teased. Damian looked entirely too hopeful at that prospect. “And hey, I know my way around Gotham better than any map, Timbo. I just don’t remember which Batburger is closest.”

“Can’t uninvite me. Spoiler and I are already here. Two blocks east from your current location.”

“Well, it’s a regular family reunion,” Jason drawled. “Let’s go, Damian, I hear a burger calling my name. And some leaves and grass calling yours, I guess.”

“I do not eat _grass_, Todd,” Damian sputtered, looking so offended that Jason half expected to get stabbed with a batarang. He fired his grapple line and leapt out of the window preemptively so Damian wouldn’t have the time to get any ideas.

He heard Damian swinging behind him, cursing under his breath but leaving the comm channel open so that Jason would hear it and know he was still displeased. And maybe Dick would have corrected the language and said some sort of perfect caring comment about Tim being family and how Damian should be nice, but. He wasn’t Dick.

He’d never be as good at family stuff as his older brother had been. Never be able to effortlessly contort himself to cater to everyone’s needs and enjoy it. He was a street rat, not a circus freak, and he had to work hard for everything Dick had achieved effortlessly.

He’d never be perfect, he knew, watching Damian eat his way through some sort of tofu monstrosity that he insisted was good. But as he turned a blind eye to Tim and Damian who thought they were stealing his fries, he dared to think that maybe, just maybe, he was good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have added the part about Bruce punching Tim, too, but I'm ignoring all the other Bane related stuff from current comics, so it wouldn't really make sense to include it. Maybe some other time I'll write a fic addressing how if you want to make a non-verbal code, there are countless body language cues you could do, or you could create some sort of signal phrase that could be slipped into conversation. There are many options. No need to punch your adopted son in the face. :)


	9. Chapter 9

Dick opened up the fridge door of the manor’s kitchen, looking for a post-workout smoothie. Alfred usually prepared these things ahead of time, so that when the various members of the household finished their workouts at all different times of day, he didn’t have to keep heading back to the kitchen to get the blender out. He pushed around the fridge, trying to see through his bangs, which were still on the longer side, even though he had gotten a haircut recently. Finally, he found a cup-shaped glass container with a label that read NIGHTWING.

He smiled. He was still training back everything his body had lost, and technically hadn’t been out of the cave as Nightwing yet. But this was Alfred’s way of silently supporting his efforts and telling him that he was still Nightwing at heart, even if he hadn’t completely reclaimed the suit yet.

His muscles ached as he closed the fridge door, trembling in a way that spoke volumes of how unfit he was. He still had a long way to go before he was strong enough to perform the grueling parkour across Gotham that he was used to, and with such a large loss of his natural flexibility, his body performed much differently than it had in the past. He had to be very careful not to overextend and overexert himself.

He found himself naturally pushing these thoughts aside to focus on the next activity, but Dick forced his mind to slow down. His therapist had broken the news to him that his tendency to move on to the next thing as quickly as possible was, in fact, incredibly unhealthy. It had allowed him to move past trauma extraordinarily fast when he was younger, like his parents' murders, Jason’s death, all the horrifying crimes he’d witnessed, all the sufferings his friends experienced, and - wow, he really had been through a lot of shit, when he stopped to think about it. But his old method of coping was not enough for the year of intense torture he’d been through. Pushing past the pain until it was far enough in the past that he could ignore it wasn’t healing. Taking the time to work through everything, was.

It was okay to grieve what he’d lost during those long, hard months. It was okay to mourn what his body had been put through and dwell on what he’d lost. He wasn’t supposed to _wallow_ in his past memories and prevent himself from progress, but his therapist had made it very clear that if he didn’t take ample time to process what had happened to him, he would not recover very quickly.

And he wanted to get better. He really did. So he forced himself to take a few minutes to think about what he missed.

He missed how effortless it used to be to fling himself across rooftops and fire escapes and window ledges. He took a swig of the smoothie - it was mostly mango and banana flavoured - and as his arms shook with the effort, he missed how much strength and power he used to have trained into his muscles. Even after an intense workout, he never used to get this exhausted.

And, that was enough of that. Dick knew he should probably spend more time allowing his thoughts to wander, but hey, he was new to this type of mindset. Rome wasn’t built in a day. He’d keep working on processing his emotions, but later. Because right now he really needed the relief of just not thinking about anything negative.

He’d take a shower, after his smoothie. The warm water would feel good on his muscles, and he’d change out of his sweaty shorts and t-shirt, and into something comfortable.

There was a soft knock on the frame of the door and he almost choked on his mouthful.

“It’s just me, Dick,” Bruce’s voice came from the corridor. He slowly stepped so that his body was in clear view through the door frame, but he didn’t step over the threshold. “Can we talk?”

Dick disguised his automatic flinch by crossing his arms. He wondered where Jason was. “Okay.”

Bruce stepped into the room, cautious and hesitant. On one hand Dick kind of hated how he was being treated like some wounded animal, but on the other hand, well, he was alone in the room and Bruce was blocking the doorway, and he was suddenly aware of how fast his heart was beating.

“What am I doing wrong?”

Dick felt his face move in confusion. “Huh?”

“Everything I do around you, scares you.” Bruce looked pained. “And it’s just me, isn’t it? You relax around Jason and the others.”

Dick dug his fingers tighter into his arms, unsure what to say.

“Whatever it is, I - I’m sorry.” Bruce grimaced. “I wish you’d tell me what it was, so I could fix it.”

Because he wanted someone dead, more badly than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Because he knew Bruce wouldn’t approve. Because he knew what Bruce was capable of. Dick knew he had a hot temper and had caused many arguments in the past, but while some of them hurt only emotionally, many of them also became physical fights.

Because as he was currently, the instant Bruce raised a hand against him his mind shut down and he submitted to the blow, making no attempt to block or counterstrike, and that was why he could only spar against the rest of his family and not his own dad. Couldn’t train with the man who’d - who’d raised him, who’d understood his grief when his parents died, who’d held him when nightmares plagued him. As much as it must have hurt Bruce that Dick was so skittish around him, it frustrated Dick as well.

Dick realized he must have been silent for a while, because Bruce had stopped looking at him like he was expecting an answer and started looking sad instead.

“I know I’m not good at this, Dick.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, I’m sorry.”

Dick stood, arms crossed, still not knowing what he was supposed to say. Before, he’d always been able to at least read what Bruce was really feeling, and that would give him a clue as to what sort of response would put his mind at ease. But that natural intuition had been, well, beaten out of him. Instead of immediately understanding and connecting with others, most of his initial thoughts were spent calculating how likely they were to hurt him. (He’d asked his therapist if that made him a narcissist, and she’d told him that it wasn’t selfish; just a trauma-induced protective mechanism that would gradually lessen as he continued to work through his issues and heal.)

And then he caught himself. He was stuck thinking about how he could appease Bruce.

He was the victim here. He didn’t owe Bruce anything. He was not under the obligation to make Bruce feel better, or confess his secrets to explain himself.

“No.”

Bruce looked surprised that Dick had even answered, and the second Dick spoke he felt his heart rate spike. He regretted it, he wished he could take it back, he shouldn’t have said anything, he’d rocked the boat and now - and now -

He took a deep breath. The manor was home. He was safe here.

He knew his voice was shaking and he hated it, but he soldiered on. “I don’t want to tell you what you’re doing wrong.”

Bruce looked disappointed and frustrated. Dick felt his anxiety skyrocket. “Then how am I supposed to fix it? Just - help me understand, Dick. That’s all I’m asking.”

Dick shook his head. “I just - I’m in therapy. I’m getting better. I don’t want to tell you.” Why could he not explain himself properly? It was like the english was getting stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

“I know you’re getting better, but I want to help you.” Bruce was asking, he was being reasonable, why was Dick having such a hard time giving him what he wanted?

No, he reminded himself. He didn’t owe Bruce anything.

“It’s not all about you, Bruce.” Dick felt something snap back into place in his mind and regained some of his clarity. “I know it makes you feel better to have a plan of action but you need to give me space.”

Damn, that sounded even better out loud than in his head. He was proud of himself.

“That’s what I want,” Bruce agreed, not getting it at all. “But you need to tell me what to do and why, because I can’t help you otherwise.”

Dick could feel his pulse beating in his ears, now, and he spoke quickly so he wouldn’t lose his newfound confidence. “No, I don’t _need_ to do anything, Bruce. You have to stop telling me what to do.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Bruce was visibly struggling to tone down the anger in his words. It made Dick feel slightly guilty, because he knew if he was better Bruce wouldn’t need to hold back the volume of his words.

No, he shouldn’t feel guilty about that, that was Bruce’s problem, not his-

He needed space, he needed air-

Bruce was still blocking the doorway

Needed to get out

“Just leave me alone. Please.”

Bruce’s response sounded far away, he was still asking something, probably demanding to know why Dick needed space

as if he was entitled to an explanation of Dick’s feelings just because he was Dick’s dad

_”GET OUT!”_

someone was screaming, it was probably him

_”GET OUT GET OUTGETOUT!”_

didn’t know how long he stood there

slowly, slowly he came back to himself.

Jason was standing worriedly in the doorway. But not inside of it, and not blocking it. Outside, in the hall, with enough space for Dick to walk past him if he wanted to.

It was childish, he knew, but he really wasn’t in the state of mind to care. Not really aware enough to feel self conscious when he bolted towards the door, out, out of the kitchen, into the hallway, where he could run in either direction, free, unless - which direction had Bruce gone -

Jason was standing close enough to him that Dick could hear words, he didn’t know what they were but he found himself calming down, breaths no longer at a hyperventilating speed, heart still hammering in his chest but limbs feeling less like he wanted to sprint as fast as he could away, away.

Jason’s mouth was moving and his hand was out but making no effort to actually touch Dick. Safe. He could pick when he wanted to touch Jason.

He bypassed holding the hand and ran straight at Jason, wrapping his arms around his brother, he needed a hug, he needed one, he needed one. He felt Jason’s arms close around his back, but only after he’d initiated the hug, it was a response to something he had asked for; he was safe.

His face didn’t feel wet. He wasn’t crying, he was just - he had no idea what emotion he was feeling, but whatever it was, it was just too much, and he clung to Jason, his brain slowly clearing until he could think.

“Jason,” was the only word he managed to say. Brain to mouth passageway was apparently still under repair.

“I’m here.”

“Why,” Dick tried to remember why he was confused. “In the manor but you hate Bruce.”

“I was helping you train, and you went up into the manor after.” Dick could feel the words hit his scalp. No, not words, breath. Jason’s warm breath in his hair. It was nice, it helped ground him. “Bruce came down to the cave looking guilty enough to have started World War III, and-”

Dick felt his mind start to drift into meaningless emotion again and yanked his thoughts back to himself.

“-waited for you,” Jason was saying. “You okay now?”

Dick nodded into Jason’s chest. “Thanks.”

Jason gave him an extra little squeeze. Silent support. Like with Alfred and the Nightwing label.

Dick let himself be held for a long time.

Finally he asked, “did you talk to Bruce?”

Jason chuckled. “A little bit.”

“What did you say?”

“Told him to fuck off. If he really wanted to help he wouldn’t force his traumatized son to talk. He’d get his own damn therapist and work through his own shit, and ask how to not be a complete asshole.”

Dick made a breathy noise that resembled a laugh. “What did he say?”

“He did that broody thing where he doesn’t answer and goes off somewhere to sulk alone.”

“Mmm.” Dick thought about that. “He does that a lot, doesn’t he.”

“He does.”

Dick loosened his grip on his brother enough that Jason took the hint and stopped the hug.

“I still love him.” Dick looked down at the ground, his heavily scarred arms and legs in his peripheral vision. “He just scares me, now.”

“You don’t have to keep talking with him.”

Dick raised his gaze to meet Jason’s in confusion.

“If it’s too stressful for you to have a conversation with him, that’s okay. You can wait until you’ve recovered a bit more.”

He hadn’t been crying before, but now he felt tears beginning to pool at the bottom of his eyes. “I just-” what did he even want? -”I just want him to help me. I -”

He buried his face into Jason’s chest again, his next words muffled by the embrace. “I just want him to be my dad.”

"I know," Jason said simply. And then, so quietly that Dick wondered if he’d even meant to say anything out loud: “I wanted him to be my dad, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all of the comments! It makes me so, so happy to see responses in my inbox and know people enjoy my writing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, an update! Life got busy, I overthought this chapter a lot, and then rewrote it like three times. Enjoy lol

Jason sat on the top of the half-exploded warehouse roof, catching his breath. He’d successfully stopped the drug shipment from entering Gotham’s streets, plus he’d prevented anyone from getting away, and hadn’t even killed any of them. The GCPD was going to be thrilled.

The only injury he’d gotten was a knife wound, wrapping around his side up to the top of his back. The cut was fairly shallow, but he wondered if he should cut the night short anyway and check to see if it would need stitches.

He looked up to see Batgirl swinging towards him, cape and red hair flowing behind her. He remained seated, letting her approach him.

She landed smoothly on the roof. “Red Hood.”

“Batgirl.”

She sat down beside him, calculated but casual. If it were any of the other Bats, Jason would have expected some awkward small talk about how he’d done a great job taking down the drug runners, and how they were glad no one was dead, and Jason could have stuck them with a nice couple barbs about how they still didn’t trust him even though it had been about a year since he’d killed anyone. But this was Barbara, and she was always direct. She didn’t waste her time softening her words, and he respected that, even if didn’t always agree with her.

“Bruce wants to call Dick on the phone later tonight.”

“No.” Jason didn’t even have to think about his answer. A couple months ago Dick had dissociated in the kitchen for an hour because Bruce wouldn’t give him enough space, and the two of them hadn’t talked since. Which relieved him a bit, if he was being honest with himself. His conversation with Damian about Bruce knocking a tooth out of Dick’s mouth had left him more on edge with their pseudo-father than ever before.

“Jason.”

“No,” he repeated. “Dick’s been doing fine without Bruce. Better, even. If I get a call from Bruce I’m not going to pick up.”

She sighed. “Jason, they can’t avoid each other forever.”

“Sure they can.” Jason smirked, the domino hiding his eyes but not his mouth. “Nightwing can make his return to Bludhaven, and never have to talk with Batman again.”

“He can, if that’s what he wants,” Barbara said seriously. “That’s why Bruce wants to call him. He wants to explain to Dick that he can do whatever he wants; reconnect or not, stay in Gotham or leave for somewhere else.”

“Oh, really.” Jason looked at her doubtfully. “But he couldn’t be bothered coming to talk in person with us?”

“He’s calling Dick because he thought he might be too intimidating in a face-to-face conversation. And he knew you wouldn’t bother even picking up the phone unless he gave you a heads up first. So he sent me, because he knew you wouldn’t stay around long enough to actually talk with him.” She rolled her eyes fondly. “Be honest, Jason. You would have just told him to fuck off.”

Jason felt his face reddening slightly. “Maybe.”

“He’s really trying, Jason.” The eye holes in her cowl didn’t have white lenses in them, so there was nothing to protect Jason from the piercing gaze of her clear green eyes. “At least tell Dick, and give him the option of picking up the phone.”

“Fine,” he heard himself saying, against his better judgement. He tried to straighten his back but winced when it pulled at the laceration.

Batgirl noticed, of course. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jason reassured her. “Knife wound.”

Unfortunately this was less reassuring that he’d meant it. Her eyebrows rose with concern. “You got stabbed?”

“No! Well, yes, but only slightly!” Jason could see he wasn’t being very convincing. “It’s more like a scratch, really. Probably won’t even need stitches.”

“How about you go home and at least disinfect the area you were slightly stabbed in.” Barbara was teasing, but in a sort of motherly, older sister way. He wished she’d talk like that with him more often.

“Okay, okay,” he grinned. “Relax. No need to be so overprotective.”

She turned away quickly, but not before Jason saw the guilt etched in her face.

He grabbed her arm before she could take off. “What?”

“It’s nothing, Jason.” She turned to leave, but didn’t try to yank her arm free.

Jason tugged her back. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not important.” But she did sit down beside him.

He waited expectantly. His fingers absent-mindedly migrated to his side, reducing the trickle of blood dripping down.

“I checked my computer log yesterday to see when I first started looking into his disappearance. When I realized it was way too long for him to have been ignoring my calls because he was angry with our breakup.” She bit her lip. “It was the same night you found him.”

Jason didn’t know what to say.

“Tim came back from his multiverse trek with Young Justice, and we started investigating together. I keep thinking, why did we wait so long? How could we have not realized sooner?”

“You can’t tell him that,” was the only thing Jason could think of replying. “It’s not fair to him. He’s moving on, and you can’t dredge that up now.”

“I know that!” she snapped, but the anger in her voice wasn’t directed at him.

“I know that.” Her words were almost quiet enough to be whipped away by the wind. “I’ve failed him enough already. The least I can do is carry this.”

The silence was heavy. Jason didn’t know how to comfort her, or if he even should comfort her. It was times like this that he felt how much younger than her he was. When he almost felt like Robin again, unsure of himself and almost in awe of her; her capabilities and expectations of herself so much higher than he could ever possibly attain.

He let the quiet linger for a few minutes.

“Barb,” he said finally, breaking the silence. To everyone else she was Babs, or Barbara, or Batgirl, or Oracle. He was the only one who ever called her Barb, and it felt special, somehow, that it was his own nickname for her. “You made a mistake. But it’s more important that you’re here for him, now. Don’t waste your time mourning what could have been.”

She smiled softly. “Look at you, all grown up. Wise enough to write proverbs for a fortune cookie company.”

He chuckled, and let her avoidance of his statement slide. If she needed to carry the guilt for a little longer, he understood. “If I ever get tired of the whole vigilante gig, that’s what I’ll do. Sell fortune cookies.”

“Now go home and patch yourself up.” The mask was back up, kindness and professionalism hiding her insecurities, but the smile was still genuine. “Can’t have you bleeding out.”

“I was only lightly stabbed!” He grinned, throwing his mask up as well, sass and nonchalance covering any soft vulnerable parts from showing. He spoke some sort of pre-memorized comeback about how she wasn’t the boss of him, and he’d decide if he needed stitches himself thank you very much, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was already thinking ahead to the phone call he was going to receive.

The ride back to his apartment didn’t calm him down like it usually did, and by the time he was parking his motorcycle he was already regretting what he’d agreed to. Yes, he was giving Dick the opportunity to answer or not, but was it really a choice if Dick said yes to anything asked of him?

His mom had been asked once by a neighbour, back in their apartment with the walls too thin to muffle the sound of breaking beer bottles. The neighbour had asked if her and her son were safe, but it wasn’t really a question, because Catherine had only known one answer to give.

It wasn’t the same, Jason told himself. It wasn’t. Bruce wasn’t Willis.

He knocked on the door. “It’s Jason.”

He heard Dick’s footfalls, heavier and more confident than they’d been at first. The door swung open, Dick’s face happy but curious. “You’re back early.”

“Yeah, Batgirl convinced me that knife wounds should be stitched up,” he smirked. “It just grazed me, though. Don’t worry about it.”

Dick stepped aside to let him enter, eyes wandering to try to find the location of the injury. “Jason, minimizing a stab wound doesn’t make you sound cool and badass. It just makes you look like an idiot.”

“No, really!” Jason protested, yanking off his boots. “It just nicked me.”

“You’d be a lot more convincing if you just showed it to me.” Dick returned playfully.

Jason removed the domino mask so he could fake-glare at Dick. “Geez, be patient.”

His brother shook his head, smiling. “I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

“Thanks.” Jason sat down on one of his kitchen chairs and wondered how to broach the subject of Bruce’s call.

Dick came back carrying the kit. “You said you ran into Babs?”

Jason decided to go for the blunt approach. “Yeah, she said that Bruce wanted to call you later tonight.”

He watched Dick carefully for his response. Dick stilled, but he didn’t look spooked, just a bit apprehensive. “Why?”

“To let you know he’s okay with waiting, and letting you decide when you want to connect with him.” The tension in Dick’s forehead eased a bit. Jason continued, “and you don’t even have to answer when he calls. It’s up to you, okay?”

Dick nodded, sitting down beside Jason and mechanically opening up the lid of the container. “Right.”

Jason watched him hunt through the kit, not really for supplies, but just so his hands had something to do. “Where’d you get hurt?”

Jason let him change the subject. “My side and back.” He took off the upper half of his costume to reveal his bare torso. “See how shallow it is?”

Somehow, in all the months of sharing an apartment, this must have been the first time Dick had seen him without a shirt on. Dick’s eyes widened, and Jason knew that although he had plenty of scars, there was one that decidedly stood out from the others.

Jason laughed, because it was better than crying. “That would be from my autopsy. The Lazarus Pit heals damage, but it doesn’t do much for scars.”

Dick still looked distressed, so he added, “it’s not like I felt it. I was already dead.”

Which had definitely sounded more comforting before he’d said it out loud.

“I’m sorry, Jay.”

He couldn’t make eye contact with Dick. “It’s fine, really.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, it’s a scar, it’s healed,” Jason reassured him. He looked down at his hands.

“No, I meant, does the reminder hurt?” Dick paused. “Is that why you dye the white out of your hair?”

And dammit, he was going to have to be careful with his answer, because at this point Dick had far more scars than he did, and he didn’t want to leave his brother with the impression that he should be ashamed or embarrassed or even fearful of his own appearance.

“It used to,” he admitted slowly. “But not anymore. Now the scars are more of a reminder of how much I’ve overcome, rather than how much I’ve been hurt. And dyeing my hair is more habit now than anything else.”

Dick seemed lost in thought. Jason knew his brother always felt better when he was in action helping, so he suggested, “would you mind stitching my side up? It’s in a bit of an awkward spot for me to do it myself.”

“Are you sure?” Dick hesitated. “I haven’t done stitches since. Since before.”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Jason turned so Dick would have better access to his side and upper back. “I trust you.”

He tried not to wince when Dick began cleaning his wound. It really wasn’t that painful, but it still stung.

“Do you want some local anaesthetic before I stitch it?” Dick asked quietly.

Jason shook his head, willing his stomach to settle. “No, thanks.”

Dick finished washing it out and began the stitches, his movements steady and precise. The slash was a little deeper than Jason had thought it was, but not by much. The pull of the needle was definitely not comfortable, but he preferred pain over numbness.

“Is it about control?”

Jason startled out of his thoughts. “Huh?”

“Bruce doesn’t like painkillers either.” Dick started the next stitch. “He likes to keep his pain tolerance high, plus if it’s a heavy painkiller he can’t focus as clearly.”

Jason pulled his lips together. “I’m not like Bruce.”

“I didn’t say that.” Dick finished the stitch and moved on to the next. “But you’ve never taken anything, not even an Advil, the whole time I’ve stayed in your apartment.”

“So? I haven’t gotten injured that badly.” He felt something flip uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.

“Jason.” Dick paused so he could look Jason in the eyes. “Did you think I was a coward the first night I slept here and not at Leslie’s clinic, and I screamed all night because there was a thunderstorm, and I hadn’t heard anything that loud but not dangerous in over a year?”

“No!” Jason was half shocked Dick remembered the incident and half hurt by what he was suggesting. “You were scared because you’d been through hell. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, and I’d never judge you for that.”

“There’s a reason why you hate painkillers so much.” Dick looked at him steadily. “So if you’re not telling me, you either think I’m going to judge you, or you think I can’t handle the truth.”

It was neither. It was both. “It’s not like that. I trust you.”

“Then tell me.” Dick narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Because I just don’t like them, okay?” Jason glared at him. “Can you just get on with the stitches?”

Dick crossed his arms.

Jason sighed. “Fine. You wanna know why?”

He wanted to throw up. He waited until the nausea settled a little before continuing. “Because my mom was always high as fuck to get away from all her problems, to get away from her hunger, or - or dealing with, with my dad, and.”

He clenched his hands into fists. “My dad would. Sometimes, he’d - hurt me, and my mom, and he always apologized for it and, he knew it was wrong, he’d blame it on - on the day he’d had, or that he was drunk, or -”

He felt something lumpy and ugly crawling up his throat and he did not want to cry. He waited until he was sure his voice would be steady.

“But he’d ask us not to tell anyone, because he was sorry, and he wouldn’t do it again, and he’d give me some over the counter stuff to take the edge off the pain and say stuff like. Like he knew I was strong enough to walk like it never happened, smile through the bruises so the neighbours wouldn’t know, he’d say he was proud of me for being brave and strong -”

He realized there were tears running down his face.

He couldn’t stop talking.

“I hated the drugs, and the painkillers, and the apologies, because pretending that nothing is wrong isn’t a solution, and.”

His voice was a whisper. “Mom overdosed to escape everything. Dad was in prison, and I was living on the street, and it was awful but at least I was taking care of myself, and not pretending Mom and Dad were. When Bruce took me in, I thought maybe I was finally safe, but then I died and he never killed the Joker so I guess Bruce was just ignoring the ugly truth too.”

He clenched his abdomen to prevent himself from sobbing, because his whole face was already streaked with tears and God, he’d almost brought up Bruce punching Dick’s tooth out and he knew he could never get that cat back into the bag, he was terrified of the consequences, he was terrified of -

He was not terrified of Bruce; he wasn’t. He wasn’t.

He just didn’t want to jeopardize his brother’s recovery, and -

“Jason.”

He looked up from his hands to Dick’s eyes, filled with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry.”

Jason shook his head, forcing a laugh. “No, no, I’m sorry, you didn’t need to hear that.” He rubbed a fist over his eyes, trying to collect some of the damp.

“Listen to me,” Dick said gently. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He smiled shakily. “I know.”

“No, listen to me.” Jason felt like Dick was staring into his soul. “It wasn’t your fault and I’m sorry it happened to you.”

“I don’t want your goddamn pity.” He tried to spit the words out but they sounded weak and defeated.

“It’s not pity. I care about you. I love you, little brother.” Dick spoke firmly. “Let me care for you.”

“Don’t.” His voice was small and somehow sounded far away from his body. “Don’t say that. Don’t say you care about me and then leave me like everyone else.”

Jason looked at his brother desperately. “I can’t take it, okay? I can’t believe you care for me when I know you’ll leave me eventually, like my mom, and dad, and Kori, Roy, Artemis, Bizarro; everyone I’ve ever...”

“It’s not your fault that they left you.”

Jason froze.

“It is not your fault they left you, Jason Peter Todd.” And Dick looked at him so earnestly that Jason found himself accepting it.

He tried to stifle the rising pressure of a sob in his chest, but once the first escaped he couldn’t stop the rest, and he screwed his eyes shut and reached out blindly and Dick wrapped both arms around him and he wept.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held. Not hugged, or supported, but held.

God, it felt good.

He only allowed himself a few minutes before pulling away from the embrace, and tried to scrub the snot and tears off his face. “Alright, finish the stitches.”

Dick laughed, but not unkindly. “I will. Are you okay now?”

Jason sniffed and gave a smile, small but genuine. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

Dick gave Jason time to collect himself, and made sure everything was sterile, before resuming the row of stitches. They were both quiet, but in a safe, comfortable way. For a few minutes there was no noise except the pull of the needle, the kitchen clock ticking almost imperceptibly, and the sound of his own breath.

He tried to help Dick clean and wipe down the area, but Dick wouldn’t let him. Jason was sent to the couch to pick a movie instead, and he almost caught himself arguing back that it was his job to take care of Dick, not the other way around. He remembered Dick saying almost the exact same thing, to Jason and Tim, after returning from being “dead” during the whole Spyral thing.

He scrolled aimlessly through suggested movie genres, wondering if they’d both forgotten who the older brother was.

His cellphone rang from the kitchen table, where he’d left it, but Dick answered it before he could even get up off the couch.

“Hi, Bruce.”

Jason stopped himself from turning around, because he knew he’d just stare at his brother and make things more awkward than they had to be.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Dick’s voice sounded steady and confident.

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

There was a pause, and as much as Jason strained to hear, he couldn’t make out anything Bruce was saying.

“Okay.”

Jason turned the remote over in his hands.

“I will.”

Dick snorted.

“I know. Yeah.”

Jason waited impatiently.

“Goodnight, Bruce.”

Jason turned around once he heard the phone set back on the table.

Dick smiled shyly. “He just said he’d stop asking me questions and expecting things, and that I should be the one to talk when I wanted or needed it.”

Jason felt doubt colour his face. “That sounds awfully mature for Bruce.”

Dick grinned. “It does, but I’m not complaining.”

He must have seen the residual worry left in Jason’s expression, because he added, “I’m going to take it slow with him. Just what I can handle, and what my therapist says I can handle.”

“Alright.” Jason left it at that. “Get your ass over here, I found The Princess Bride.”

Dick flipped over the back of the couch instead of walking all the way around it. “Haven’t seen that one for years.”

Halfway through the movie, Dick had fallen asleep, so Jason turned the subtitles on and the sound off and curled up next to his brother. It felt like a big risk, but he dared to hope that maybe this was something he could count on happening again, even after Dick recovered enough to not need to live with him anymore. Maybe he wouldn’t be left behind again, alone and hurt and mourning.

It felt good to hope again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen Good Will Hunting, please do. (Part of this chapter is inspired by one of the scenes.) It's a really good movie, plus it has a very very young Matt Damon and Ben Affleck in it. And also Robin Williams. It's amazing and really touching.
> 
> All your comments make me so happy; thanks for all the support! It's the first fic I've ever posted to this site and it blows my mind that you guys are all enjoying it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a time skip from last chapter again; a couple months at least.

The laughter erupted from deep in his gut.

It was so, so good to be flying again.

The Gotham wind whipped his hair back, and his hands gripped the grapple securely. The exhilarating motion of swinging, the smell of air pollution and litter and fresh rain; the physical satisfaction his muscles felt as he threw himself across the rooftops with flips and handsprings and sprints.

He’d missed this.

He heard Jason’s grapple fire, slightly behind him and to his left. Tim was in front of him, setting the pace and picking the best patrol route to follow. He knew they were there to protect him, and he could feel them periodically glancing at him to see if he was emotionally overwhelmed or physically winded. The lack of independence might have bothered him when he was younger and struggling to prove himself, but now it just made him feel safe and cared for. It was good to know that if he had a panic attack, or came across one of the more dangerous Gotham rogues, his family had his back.

“Eight armed men heading towards Tricorner,” Batman’s voice came over the comm line. “Robin and I are busy with gang activity in Chinatown.”

“We’re on it, B,” he replied cheerfully, using his grappling gun to change direction mid-air. He appreciated Bruce’s efforts to word his sentences as statements, rather than demands. It made conversation so much easier, and the tension between them decrease to almost nothing.

“Race you there,” Tim grinned, shooting past him, and Dick laughed again. Tim was so good at bringing normality to the situation, and making people feel at ease.

“No fair, you gave yourself a headstart,” Jason complained. “You’re supposed to announce the beginning of the race _before_ you take the lead.”

“Trying to get by on a technicality? You?” Dick smirked, vaulting over an air conditioning unit to save time, instead of running around it. “That just means you know you won’t win.”

“Dick,” Jason grumbled, his tone making it very clear that although he was referring to Nightwing, he wasn’t saying his brother’s name, but the insult. He was glad his brothers were treating it like a regular patrol night, and not walking on eggshells to avoid hurting him.

He’d changed his costume, but only slightly. He still had the blue V and the stripes down his arms to his fingers, but he’d opted for a half-cowl instead of a domino mask. It was a bit like how the Batman cowl covered the eyes, nose and chin, leaving only a bit by the mouth exposed, but the top was cut open so his hair could come out, like Wally’s Flash costume.

He hadn’t talked to his best friend, or any of the Titans, since before...before. But he knew Wally wouldn’t mind him stealing a bit of outfit inspiration; would be happy that the reminder added to Dick’s courage. And he was planning on talking to them all, and soon, but.

Going out as Nightwing again was something he wanted - needed - to do first. To feel himself again.

And the costume change wasn’t just for style, or emotional reasons. It was also practical, because with the amount of facial scarring he had, it would be very tedious to use make-up concealer every night to hide what wasn’t covered by the domino.

He, Babs and Bruce had worked together to formulate a cover story. In a few months, Richard Grayson-Wayne would release to the press something very close to the truth of his kidnapping and torture. The reasoning behind how long they’d waited to release the information was that he’d needed time to recover without being overwhelmed with questions and media coverage and demands for interviews. He’d slowly accept more interviews and appear in public more frequently.

Nightwing’s reappearance would happen a few months prior, so the public wouldn’t put two and two together. 

“And I win,” Tim said triumphantly, coming to a stop at the edge of a building. It was the highest building in the Tricorner area, making it a good vantage point.

“Cheater.” Jason gave him a friendly shoulder bump. He’d hardly put any force to it, but his sheer bulk almost launched Tim’s shorter and more wiry form over the edge.

Tim yelped, recovering his balance and then glaring at Jason, who grinned back smugly. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting you’re such a shrimp.”

“I’m _not_,” he said crossly, looking to Dick for help. “Tell him I’m not.”

“Well, I don’t know.” Dick ruffled his brother’s hair before he could duck out of the way. “You’re the perfect height for me to do that.”

“Hey, cut it out,” Tim protested, but Dick shushed him.

“I see our guys down there.”

Jason and Tim turned to where Dick was looking, instantly switching from casual comradery to a business-like professionalism.

“Semi-automatics and light tactical gear.” Jason observed, amused. “But the way they carry themselves, it’s obvious they’re new to this. Sloppy formation, not fully alert, holding their guns in their best imitation of what they’ve played on a PlayStation.”

“No outgoing communications lines.” Tim flicked through the computer display on his wrist. “So we don’t have to be on the lookout for backup.”

“Let’s be honest, B would have mentioned if they had backup,” Dick added. “If he said there were only eight of them, there’s only eight of them.”

Jason stuck his index fingers up beside his head in a mimicry of the Batman ears. “Because he’s Batman,” he fake growled, Tim snorting and Dick shaking his head in mock disapproval.

“No need to make a complicated plan.” Tim shifted them back to the task at hand. “I say we just drop on them; take them by surprise.”

“Works for me,” Dick agreed, getting his grapple ready, and when Jason and Tim had done the same, they jumped.

The trick with jumping off of a tall building was using the grapple correctly, because using it improperly could cause broken ankles or legs, and not using it at all would result in death. He could feel his brothers’ eyes on him, making sure he was slowing his descent enough, and when they landed, Red Hood casually maneuvered through the fight to behind Nightwing, so they could fight back to back. The adrenaline and action of the fight, the rhythm of escrima; the familiarity of fighting brought back a feeling of purpose and _rightness_.__

_ _Red Hood’s intuition had been on the money: the whole group went down very easily, and before long they were standing over a pile of unconscious bodies. Red Robin called the GCPD to inform them, and forwarded all the relevant evidence that had been collected on the batcomputer._ _

_ _Dick was more breathless than he wanted to admit. It had felt amazing to be fighting the good fight again, and he hadn’t felt scared or overwhelmed, but in control of himself and the fight. But it was still much more strenuous than he was used to. He wasn’t good enough._ _

_ _No, that wasn’t true, he realized, thinking about his therapy sessions. He was good enough. He just wasn’t as strong as he had been. It was okay to miss what he’d lost, but he shouldn’t hate himself for being less than perfect. He was okay with who he was. Well, he was almost okay with it, and he was working towards being completely okay with it._ _

_ _He wished he could convince Jason to go to therapy, too. His brother deserved more than always feeling pain and anger._ _

_ _He must have been breathing louder than he’d thought, because Jason looked over at him and asked neutrally, “you okay, Nightwing?”_ _

_ _“Yeah.” He tried to slow his breathing._ _

_ _Jason could see right through him, dammit. “You look a little winded.”_ _

_ _“I’m fine,” he snapped defensively. “I don’t care if you think I’m not good enough, you can’t prevent me from being Nightwing until I’m in top form, okay-”_ _

_ _“Woah, woah, hold on.” Jason raised his hands up in the ‘I don’t want to fight’ way. “I’ll never tell you what to do, remember? I just want to make sure you’re alright.”_ _

_ _Dick felt the anger surging under his skin for a few more seconds before Jason’s words sunk in._ _

_ _Jason cared about him. Jason wasn’t trying to control him. Just because Dick now had the power to fight back instead of cowering in fear and obedience, didn’t mean he had to do either._ _

_ _He realized his hands were curled into fists, and slowly relaxed them. “Sorry. You’re right.”_ _

_ _“Police will be here soon,” Tim reminded them. Jason and Dick nodded wordlessly, and they grappled up to the roof._ _

_ _Dick landed in a squat, arms resting on his thighs. “Just a bit out of breath. No big deal.”_ _

_ _Jason seemed satisfied. “Good. You did good tonight, Dick.”_ _

_ _“You’re definitely ready,” Tim agreed. “Field ready. Your stamina will come back, and all your skills are up to par.”_ _

_ _Dick looked up at them skeptically._ _

_ _“When have we lied to you?” Jason said. “Teased you, sure, and annoyed the hell out of you, maybe. But we wouldn’t lie just to make you feel better, not about something like this.”_ _

_ _He felt relief bloom in his chest. “Thanks.”_ _

_ _After a few minutes, he felt like he’d had enough of a breather. He stood up, determined to not let anything ruin his night. “I’m ready.”_ _

_ _Jason nodded and this time he led the way, and they ran through Gotham’s night._ _

_ _They stopped a couple muggers and some teenagers attempting to rob a convenience store, but the night was uneventful, with no atomic bombs or homicidal sprees. A surprisingly quiet night for Gotham._ _

_ _He did feel himself start to flag, though, and Jason and Tim exchanged a glance._ _

_ _“I know, it’s earlier than we usually end patrol but I’m out of shape,” Dick said. “You don’t have to pretend I’m not.”_ _

_ _“No shame in that.” Tim smiled at him. “It was really nice to have you in the field again.”_ _

_ _“Thanks, Timmy.” He couldn’t resist scrubbing his hand through Tim’s shaggy hair again._ _

_ _“Hey,” Tim protested good-naturedly, batting at Dick’s arm._ _

_ _“You can come back with us to our apartment, if you want,” Jason offered._ _

_ _Tim brightened at the invitation, but shook his head apologetically. “Sorry, I already told Steph I’d meet up with her tonight.”_ _

_ _“Aw, young love,” Jason smirked, at the same time as Dick joked, “I don’t know how I feel about you spending the night with her, young man.”_ _

_ _“Jason, you’re literally only three years older than me,” Tim said, but his cheeks reddened nonetheless. “And shut up, Dick, it’s not like that, it’s for a case.”_ _

_ _“You’ve still got a baby face!” Jason almost pinched his cheek but Tim dodged just in time._ _

_ _“Sure, Timmy. You kids have fun,” Dick teased._ _

_ _“You’re both the worst!” Tim called over his shoulder, grappling away to escape._ _

_ _His muscles were burning from exertion as they made their way home, but he didn’t mind. He was just happy that he’d healed this much already, and had accomplished so much._ _

_ _He felt like Nightwing again; like himself again._ _

_ _He waited while Jason fumbled with the keys to the apartment, his gloves great for protection in combat but not so much for fine motor skills. Finally it opened and the boys went inside, Jason yanking off his boots and Dick swinging the door to close it behind them._ _

_ _It wouldn’t shut all the way._ _

_ _Confused, he turned around to see what the problem was, opening the door to see if something was blocking it._ _

_ _he was face to face with-_ _

_ _well, mask to mask with-_ _

_ _well._ _

_ _“It’s good to see you out as Nightwing again,” he said, and Dick’s insides were heavy and frozen, the warmth and contentment flushed out, because he knew that voice. He could never forget._ _

_ _“I was beginning to wonder if I’d succeeded entirely too well in breaking you.”_ _

_ _and there was ice water in Dick’s veins, because he had Robin, had _Damian_, limp form slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and there was a gun to his little brother’s head-_ _

_ _“You fucking bastard,” Jason snarled, hands twitching towards his holstered guns, but the barrel of the gun pressed more firmly into Damian’s skull, and Jason stilled._ _

_ _“He’s only unconscious,” Dick’s torturer assured them. “I don’t want to kill him, and I won’t, as long as neither of you try anything.”_ _

_ _-heart beating like a jackhammer, Dick felt like his chest was about to explode-_ _

_ _“I’ve got a tranquilizing agent here, mostly painless, and neither of you are going to fight back.” The ski mask didn’t betray any emotion. “If you cooperate, you will all live.”_ _

_ _-oh God, oh God this couldn’t be happening-_ _

_ _“You son of a bitch-” Jason’s voice sounded far away-_ _

_ _Dick heard something fire, felt a sting in his neck, felt the numbness spread-_ _

_ _panic and heavy limbs_ _

_ _his body hit the ground, he fought the drowsiness_ _

_ _his eyes closed and there was only darkness._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, typing out the last part of the chapter, an evil grin on my face: oh, they're going to love this.


	12. Chapter 12

He was lying down.

He didn’t know where he was, but he was still mostly asleep and very groggy, so it didn’t bother him.

His eyelids slowly fluttered open. Limbs feeling heavy and stiff, he raised himself slightly off the ground with his elbows. Looking around, he found himself near the end of some sort of corridor.

Confused and not recognizing his surroundings, he blinked hard. This helped him realize he didn’t have a mask on, which wasn’t alarming in and of itself, but after looking down at his body he realized that he was in his Nightwing suit.

It felt nice to have on, but even though he was happy to be wearing the suit again, he couldn’t quite enjoy it. There was no reassuring weight of his two escrimas sticks on his back, and as he sat up, he realized all his tools had been taken out, so he didn’t have his grapple, lockpicks or anything else. He reached to the back of his neck to feel for the half-cowl and pull it over his face, but it had been ripped completely off, which was unsettling.

His mental fog was lifting, leaving him more aware and increasingly anxious; staggering to his feet as he glanced up and down the hall.

Suddenly he remembered what had happened. His captor, Damian, the gun, Jason, the apartment, the tranq-

His brothers, oh God, he had to find his brothers.

He barely had enough presence of mind to stop himself from sprinting down the hall, screaming out their names. He walked cautiously and as quietly as he could, muscles tensed for action, ears perked for noise ahead or behind him. Everything was eerily quiet, the lighting closer to dim than bright, and he realized there were several doorways ahead of him.

The first room’s door was wide open, and he silently approached it, letting as little of his body pass the doorframe as possible to minimize the chance of anyone seeing him, and peered inside.

He’d never seen it from this angle before, but. Recognition hit him instantly.

It was the same size and shape and colour of his cell.

If it actually had been his, it must have been thoroughly scrubbed, because there were no red-brown crusty bloodstains on the walls, and the corner with the drain in it didn’t reek of human waste. It was grey and bare and empty.

He shivered and continued.

The next doorway was on the opposite side of the hall, and it was the same as the first. Clean, empty, grey; too small. It was small, it was small-

_When the room is small so you focus on someone else; something else,_ he remembered Jason saying. Jason was claustrophobic too, probably because of the whole ‘waking up in a coffin after being brutally murdered’ thing, but he'd said he pushed the thoughts away by focusing on other people.

He took a deep breath. He had to be strong. For Damian, for Jason.

He resumed walking down the hallway, the stench of old and fresh blood hitting him just before he reached the third room, and dread pooled in his gut.

Some poor bastard was curled up in the center of the cell, bare and covered in only a blindfold and bruises. Fresh black and blue and purple contusions, with semi-healed green and yellow bruises adding to the patchwork, whole body coated in a film of blood; a couple knives buried down to the hilt in his side and arm. The un-stabbed arm was definitely dislocated, draping awkwardly over his chest-

His chest.

Almost buried under the colourful injuries was a large, y-shaped, pink-white scar. An autopsy scar.

_Jason._

Dick almost threw up.

How much time had passed since they were taken from Jason’s apartment? The colour of the bruises indicated it had been at least several days, inactivity due to being unconscious for that long would explain the stiffness in Dick’s limbs; neither he nor his brother had stubble but that could just mean someone had shaved him while he was asleep. He felt a shudder course through his body.

And that’s when he realized there was another person in the room, reaching down to grab a handful of Jason’s sweat-soaked hair-

He screamed, running into the room. “Get your _fucking_ hands off him!”

The other hand shoved a gun under Jason’s chin, and his head was yanked off the ground by his hair.

Jaw swollen, Jason gave a weak whimper.

“You’re not in the position to make any demands, Dick Grayson,” his torturer said cooly, ski mask slightly muffling his words. “I won’t hesitate to shoot him if you cross me. I’ll still have your youngest brother to use as a hostage.”

Dick’s hands curled into fists, voice trembling slightly. “What do you want.”

“For you to kill me.” They locked eye contact, grey-green eyes tinged with madness meeting his own shocked blue ones. “Or let me go.”

He let Jason’s head fall, smacking the ground. “I paid someone to watch the video feed in this room. If you kill me, or if you choose not to, he will tell you where Damian is. If you try to simply knock me unconscious and send me off to jail, you will never see him again.”

He stood up suddenly, throwing the pistol at Dick, who caught it reflexively.

He looked down at the weapon in his hands, scared and confused, and back up at his tormentor. “Why?”

“You wouldn’t care, even if you knew.”

He was sick of the abuse, and the bullshit, and he longed to see the man in front of him die a painful death, but.

Not yet. Not when he still had so many questions. “Show me your face.”

When he was answered with silence, Dick raised the gun, finger tightening around the trigger. _”Who are you?”_

“That’s not important.” The hint of bitterness in his voice made Dick angry.

“Fuck you!” he spat out. “Just tell me who you are!”

And then the old fear came rushing back because he’d raised his voice, and he was terrified of being punished for that, and his emotions overcame his logic, and voice cracked against his will. “Please.”

There was silence for a beat, and Dick’s heart pounded. But then his torturer reached up and pulled the mask off.

He was a ginger. He had a big nose. He was no one Dick recognized.

“Maxwell Dossey,” he said, throwing the mask off to the side. “But that name doesn’t mean anything to you, does it?”

Dick shook his head slowly, heart still beating wildly.

“I’m not surprised.” Dossey’s face twitched. “And even now, you’re not thinking about me. You’re wondering why I took _you,_ why I hurt _you._ Thinking about how I made _you_ feel.”

Dossey chuckled humourlessly. “I grew up as one of Gotham’s elite. I had everything wealth could buy, and mattered to absolutely nobody.”

“My parents sent me to a boarding school, and never even remembered my birthday, and the teachers and kids and the goddamn mailman ignored me; forgot about me. Hardly looked at me. I thought it was because I was just worthless.”

“As an adult, I got myself tested for the metagene, on a whim.” Dossey’s eyes widened a bit too much, tone still impassive. “I tested positive as a meta. My abilities were as powerful as high level superheroes, and they were emotion based.”

His mouth twisted into a sneer. “I had the miserable, wretched power to force everyone around me to ignore me. Cursed with the power of insignificance, too powerful to turn off or be contained by any device. I would know, because I tried to find a solution for years. You have no idea how lonely that is, how hollow and empty it makes you feel.”

He cackled. “Your little friends never looked for you, because anything that could possibly lead back to me was impossible to even consider! But I’ll bet they came scurrying to find you as soon as I threw you in that dumpster and left. Without me around, to shield you from their thoughts.”

Dick’s arms were trembling.

“But even my powers had to have limits, right? And I remembered that growing up, the only actions I did that had any influence on those around me were the mean ones. Because even though I could never matter to them, their own hurt and annoyance mattered to themselves.”

“But that’s just human nature and selfishness! None of that validated my own existence!” Dossey’s eyes were bright with obsession. “But if I could hurt a hero…”

The man raked his gaze over the blue V on his chest, and Dick felt his skin crawl violently.

“If a hero would betray their no-kill rule for me? If I’d changed them enough that they hated me, and put a bullet through my brains?” He rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Well, I’d finally have significance to someone, wouldn’t I?”

“And imagine my delight when I ripped off your suit, and uncovered the gypsy son of Bruce Wayne. You never did anything to earn his love. Bruce Wayne wouldn’t have been able to notice me if I’d had a heart attack and died on stage at one of his extravagant galas, but he took you in because, what? You were a sad, pathetic little orphan?”

Dick’s anger bubbled up, mixing unpleasantly with the overwhelming terror he felt in response to Dossey’s glower.

“I would have been glad to break whoever you were under the mask, but you were a treat. It was like getting revenge on everyone who didn’t have to fight tooth and nail to earn their recognition!” Dossey fumed. “You deserved it least of all! You were a circus vagabond, a nobody, and I had wealth in my blood and deserved power and fame, not this cursed metagene!”

There were hot angry tears streaming down Dick’s face, and he wanted to pull the trigger so badly; his arms were shaking and he was enraged and afraid and furious.

Logical thoughts started to trickle in. Thoughts that sounded a lot like Bruce’s voice. That there was always another way, that killing wasn’t the answer, and nothing gave them the right to be judge, jury and executioner.

But he had the chance to take the life of someone who’d completely ruined his own; someone who’d played with him until he was broken, someone who’d caused him so much physical and emotional anguish that he’d almost completely lost his sense of self. And now he’d hurt Jason, too.

If he let the man go, Damian and Jason would still be safe, but. Who knew what Dossey would do if he were free. He’d be able to get away with anything, because any evidence or trail leading back to him would be ignored and dismissed as unimportant. Or maybe he’d try his torture experiment with someone else, hoping they would satisfy his obsession where Dick was too noble to pull the trigger.

“If you won’t kill me, I’ll take my leave.” Dossey was abruptly calm.

“No, you can’t.” Dick realized he was sobbing. “You can’t go, I haven’t decided yet-”

“What are you waiting for?” He seized Jason by the hair again, wrenching his whole upper body off the ground. Jason hardly made a noise, this time, sagging limply in the man’s clutch. “You know you’ll regret it forever, if you let me live. I’ll always be out there, somewhere, and you’ll never be able to find me, though you think I deserve the worst for torturing you, you little thieving gyp, you and your street rat brother.”

Dick was starting to hyperventilate, and his finger ached to pull the trigger, but he knew it was wrong, he couldn’t disappoint Bruce, he needed to know his tormentor was dead, he hated that the intentional venom in the man’s words worked so well to rile him up, he was pathetic, he shouldn’t let emotion control him, his torturer’s passionate eyes held his gaze captive, he was terrified, he was angry, he wanted revenge-

There was a blur of motion as Jason ripped the knife out of his side and slashed at Dossey’s neck, the man made a gurgling noise, he let go of Jason’s hair to clutch his throat, and Jason stabbed at his face, ripped it out and stabbed it in again, lodging the blade in his eye socket; there was blood everywhere.

The man was dead in seconds.

Jason shoved the blindfold off with just his left hand, his whole right arm dangling limply from his dislocated shoulder. "That's the least you deserve, you sadistic fucker."

Dick sank to his knees, hearing the gun clatter on the ground as it slipped from his fingers.

Oh God.

He’d asked; Jason had killed-

He’d asked; Jason had killed-

dead, his tormentor was dead-

he’d asked Jason had killed

everything was slowly fading from his vision

heard his name

someone was saying his name

asking if touch was okay

he nodded

he felt something warm and sticky on his face, the smell was strong; enough to keep him from dissociating.

Jason’s hand on his face, covered in blood, the arm still had the knife buried in it; his other arm hung out of socket.

“Dick.”

He tried to quell the panic, he was trying, he was trying-

He’d asked; Jason had killed-

“Stay with me, Dick.”

oh God

“I need your help, Dick. You need to stay with me.”

He took a shuddering breath.

“Deep breaths, Dick. Focus on my voice.”

Breathing. In and out.

“Good, keep breathing. Can you open your eyes?”

He opened them. Jason looked terrible, and there was blood gushing from the side he’d pulled the knife out of. The absence of the blindfold revealed more bruising and two black eyes. 

Dick couldn’t stop crying.

“Sorry,” he gasped between sobs. “I asked - asked you to. Kill him-”

“Dick, it’s okay.”

“I asked-” he sucked in another breath -”you killed, sorry-”

His breath hitched again -”got hurt, my fault-”

“I’m okay.” Jason’s tone was gentle but his voice was rough and weak sounding. “I’m not hurt that badly.”

The warm hand and the coppery scent of blood on his cheek was the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment.

“It’s just bruises, some cuts. Hasn’t fed me, but I’ve had water.” Half of Jason’s mouth turned up in an attempt at a reassuring smile. The other side was too swollen to move. “He didn’t waste time on anything deeper because he was only trying to get you emotional, so he focused on surface stuff you’d see right away, like bruising and blood.”

That made sense, but. “Bleeding out?” were the only words he could manage to say.

Jason shook his head. “No major internal bleeding. And I wasn’t stabbed in any major blood vessels in my side.”

Dick tried to calm his breathing down.

“I had to pretend I was weaker than I was, so he’d let his guard down,” Jason explained. “And I couldn’t kill him before we knew where Damian was, and you deserved to hear him explain why he did what he did. And I couldn’t see, so I had to wait until he was close to me.”

“When he, when he grabbed your hair.” Dick took a deep breath.

“Exactly.”

Dick frowned. “Where did he say Damian was?”

“He said he’d paid someone to tell us where Damian was.” Jason said patiently. “Someone came by and left a cell phone by the door; said there were coordinates inside.”

“When?” Dick couldn’t remember that happening.

“A few minutes ago. You were pretty spaced out.”

Dick felt disgusted with his lack of emotional control. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Jason looked down at his side. “I’m not in immediate danger of dying, but it would be good if I could put pressure on this. I’m going to move my hand now, okay?”

Dick nodded, and he missed the sensation immediately after Jason removed his hand to hold his side. He needed - he needed touch, needed a hug, he needed-

“Dick, stay focused on my voice, okay? I still need your help.”

Touch, he needed touch

“I need you to be strong, okay? I can’t do this on my own.”

His brother needed him. He nodded.

“I need you to go over to the door and pick up the cell phone.”

It seemed so far away; too far away. Far away from his brother, and he needed Jason-

“You can do it.” Maybe he was imagining it, but Jason’s voice sounded quieter than it had at first. “You can come right back here once you have it.”

He managed to push himself onto his feet, somehow, and stumble to the phone, and it seemed hours later that he’d reached Jason again.

“My fingers are too wet, so I need you to open up the phone, okay?”

Turn on the phone. He could do that. Power button. Swipe. He still had his gloves on, and the screen didn’t react. He pulled them off, tried again; it worked.

“I need you to call Bruce, or Barbara, or someone whose number you can remember.”

Dad. He needed his dad.

His thumbs found the numbers to dial.

He put it on speakerphone, not sure if he would be able to talk. At least Jason would be able to respond.

“Bruce,” Jason said, as soon as the call went through.

“Jason?”

“Y’need to.” Jason pushed harder on his side. “Trace the call, find Damian.”

“Batgirl is on the line as well.” Bruce’s voice was focused, strong. “We’re working on it.”

“Good.” Jason’s voice sounded a little shaky.

“Are you okay?” Some worry bled into Batman’s professionalism.

“Yeah.” Jason’s colouring was pale where the bruises weren’t, and there was sweat beading on his forehead, and the blood was still oozing out around his fingertips.

“Batgirl and I realized you three boys hadn’t checked in for a week, and we started looking for you.” Bruce emphasized his next three words. “Are you okay?”

“When did you start looking for us?”

The line was silent, and then Bruce said quietly, “About ten minutes ago. I’m sorry.”

“Ten minutes.” Jason’s gaze wandered over to the man he’d killed, about ten minutes ago. “Huh.” The influence of his powers must have ended as soon as he died.

“I have your location, and hacked the phone to find where Damian is,” Batgirl updated them. “The phone is in an old factory just outside Bludhaven, and Damian’s location is in a smaller city, about half an hour from Metropolis.”

Just outside Bludhaven.

This whole time, he’d been so close to home.

“Batgirl and Black Bat are headed to Damian’s location,” Bruce said, steady and calm. Dick latched onto his voice, trying to keep himself from dissociating again. “Red Robin and I will reach you in fifteen minutes.”

“He’s bleeding,” Dick said hoarsely. “Can you hurry?”

“Dick?”

“Please, hurry,” and Dick was crying again. He needed Jason to be okay, and there was blood everywhere-

“Dickie, it’s okay.” His dad’s voice was so gentle that Dick cried harder, because he remembered Bruce comforting him like that when he was still a child, and had nightmares about his parents falling to their deaths.

“We’re almost there, Dickie.”

He would be safe soon. He would be safe, and Jason would be safe.

The body in the centre of the room drew his gaze. What would Bruce do when he saw it?

“Sorry,” he wailed. “It’s my fault, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Bruce’s voice was soothing. “It’s going to be okay.”

And Dick didn’t have the strength to disagree anymore, and maybe Bruce was right and it would all be okay, so he sat there and sniffled and listened to the phone, and Bruce continued to fill the silence with reassuring words.

Eventually, Red Robin appeared in the doorway. Tim’s expression betrayed his shock at Jason’s state, and the corpse, but his words to Dick were a practiced, controlled calm. “Can me and Batman come in to help?”

Dick nodded.

Red Robin entered the cell with Batman behind him, slowly enough that Dick didn’t feel panicked. They both glanced at the slumped form of Maxwell Dossey, but Bruce didn’t let it keep his attention and walked towards his sons, stooping down to a crouch.

“You’re both safe, now. He can’t hurt you.”

Dick nodded again, more tears leaking down his cheeks.

“Jason, can you walk?” Bruce asked gently. When Jason shook his head, Bruce detached his cape from the Batman suit and draped it over Jason’s shoulders. Making sure it wrapped around Jason’s body and covered him, Bruce lifted him off the ground and stood up.

Dick heard Jason give a whine of pain at the motion. “It hurts, Dad.”

“I know, Jay," Bruce’s deep voice rumbled. “I’m sorry.”

“‘m tired,” Jason murmured, voice subdued with ache and exhaustion. “Hungry, Dad, ‘m so hungry.”

How much had Jason downplayed his hurt, just so he could comfort Dick? He felt guilt roil his stomach. It wasn’t fair of him to depend so much on Jason.

“It’s okay now, Dick,” Tim smiled sadly, diverting his attention away from Jason and Bruce. “You’re both safe now, okay?”

Tim offered his hand, and Dick stared at it dumbly for a few seconds before he registered it. He slipped his hand into Tim’s smaller one. His little brother’s grip was strong and firm, the armoured glove fitting solidly around Dick’s bare hand. Where a hug would have allowed him to release his emotions and tears, the hand gave him the strength he needed to remain functional.

“We’re going back to the Batplane, now, so we can help Jason.” Tim spoke simply, but not in a degrading and insulting way. Tim was good at things like that: he just knew what was needed, and knew how to get it done.

Walking out of the facility was surreal. Tim led them back to the plane, and his hand around Dick’s was the only thing that felt solid and real, grounding him just enough that he knew it wasn’t a dream.

Jason was going to be okay. He was going to be okay.

They were going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my poor boys :'(
> 
> Side note, Maxwell Dossey actually is a character in the comics. I lifted his name from a smarmy socialite at a gala that Bruce Wayne was attending, somewhere during Batman and Robin Eternal. But don't worry, you weren't supposed to like recognize the name or anything, and he really doesn't have any continuity with his canon comic counterpart. I just literally couldn't come up with a name, so I stole one.


	13. Chapter 13

Warm, and in a bed, and comfortable, and no pain.

He was happy to drift back asleep.

He became conscious enough to realize he was under thick sheets and a blanket. He wasn’t naked anymore, and his skin felt clean, not wet and sticky with blood and sweat. The pull of stitches, but no pain. It was nice, floating on the edge of consciousness, and he was still tired, the need to sleep gently tugging him.

He let himself drift back into unconsciousness.

Partially conscious, something in his gut told him he needed to be awake. There was something he needed to know, someone who needed him, but he couldn’t quite remember, and he couldn’t open his eyes.

“Hnng?” he tried, mouth not cooperating.

He was in pajamas, and he was comfortable in whatever bed he was in, and he was safe, but he needed to know something before he could rest again.

“Damian?” His eyelids were too heavy to open. “Where’s he? ‘s Damian safe?”

“Todd.”

“Damian?” He tried to shift his body upright but his legs kicked out uselessly under the covers. “Damian, where’s Damian.”

“Todd, I’m here.”

His brain struggled to process the information. “Damian?”

“I wasn’t hurt like you, just locked away for insurance. I am unharmed.”

“Damian.” Jason moved one of his arms woodenly, grasping at nothing.

He felt a small hand slide into his and relaxed fractionally.

“I am alright, Todd. Grayson and I are safe.”

What about, the man. There was someone who was dangerous?

"Grayson debriefed us on what happened. Maxwell Dossey is dead, and the man he paid to watch the video feed has been tracked down and taken in. You are safe from the danger, now, Todd."

Safe. They were safe.

He let the weight of sleep pull him under once more.

The next time he woke up, he finally felt strong enough to force his eyes to open. Everything was blurry. He blinked, until his vision cleared enough that he could see he was in one of the medical areas of the batcave.

He pushed down the blanket clumsily, a clip on one finger - to check his blood oxygen content? - and an IV line tangling around his hand. His chest was bare, exposing faded bruises and stitched lacerations, but he had loose-fitting pajama pants on.

Feeling slightly more alert, he tried to sit up, only to feel a twinge of something in his thighs and abdomen, making him flop back weakly on the mattress.

“Jason, wait. Let me help you.”

He felt the bed move into more of a reclining position almost before he realized someone had said something. By the time he figured out what the words meant, someone was fixing his pillow so he could sit all the way upright.

He blinked again. “Bruce?”

Bruce looked rough with stubble and deep shadows behind his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in days, but he smiled. “Jason.”

Jason looked down at his chest again, seeing the fist-sized bruises and raised welts. It was nice to finally be in almost no pain, after the frankly horrible week he’d had.

He had no idea how Dick had lasted months in that hell without completely losing his mind. Jason had known why he was taken; had endured a monologue of reasoning from Dossey while he was being beaten into the ground, and hadn’t fought back under threat of Damian being hurt. But he’d been able to stay strong because he knew he had to. For Dick, for Damian.

But Dick hadn’t had a reason or mission to hold strong for, or even known why he'd been kidnapped. All he’d had was confusion and pain.

“How are you feeling?”

Jason looked up at Bruce groggily. “Good.”

“That’s good. I’m glad.”

His thoughts drifted back to when his body had been screaming with agony and he’d felt so exposed and vulnerable, and he was only holding himself together through sheer willpower for his brother. Until Bruce had come, and he was finally being covered and carried to safety.

It was almost exactly how he’d fantasized being saved from the Joker, all those years ago. It was perfect. It felt too good to be true.

He looked down at the IV trailing from his vein, to the bag that held the fluids that were slowly dripping inside him. It was probably just fluids because he hadn’t had any food and was also fairly dehydrated, but.

He was oddly warm and pain free, thoughts slightly detached and floaty.

He looked back up at Bruce, the twist of betrayal in his stomach making him fully awake.

“What the fuck,” he snarled. “You know I hate painkillers, but this isn’t just tylenol. I know what it feels like to come down from fucking opiods, Bruce.”

Bruce sighed. “I just wanted you to be safe and comfortable. No one deserves the pain you went through.”

He ripped the IV catheter out of his skin. “Yeah, I didn’t deserve it, but I don’t deserve your bullshit either!” He knew he was screaming. “You know I hate them and you know why I hate them!”

Bruce looked pained. “If I hadn’t given you anything and you’d woken up, scared and hurting, but you’d gotten over your dislike of painkillers, you would have yelled at me for _not_ giving them to you, and assuming I still knew you so well. I risked upsetting you either way, so I picked the way where at least you could be in less pain.”

Jason glowered at him.

“I’m not trying to pick a fight with you.” Bruce sat down in a chair beside Jason’s bed. “I didn’t want to bring up anything painful, I wanted you to be able to relax and heal first.”

“Not trying to bring up-” Jason came to the abrupt realization of what Bruce was really trying to avoid. “You’re not mad at me for killing Dick’s torturer, are you?”

Bruce didn’t say anything, which was an answer itself.

“That fucker deserved way worse than he got. He tortured Dick for _nearly an entire year.”_ Jason clenched his fists when Bruce remained impassive. “You wanted me to let him go? There’s no guarantee we’d ever be able to find him, given his powers, and Dick would have to live knowing that the guy was out there, somewhere, free to do whatever the hell he wanted.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we talk about this later.”

“Oh I’m sorry, is this not a convenient time for you?” Jason sneered.

Bruce couldn’t hide the exasperation that flashed over his face. “What do you want me to say? That I support you for killing an unarmed man even though you had an opportunity not to?”

“There was never a choice!” Jason yanked the clip off his finger in an effort to use up the restless, frustrated energy itching in his limbs. “Letting that man go free was never an option!”

“His powers were emotionally-based, but he still left behind physical evidence of his existence. We know many strong empaths and telepaths that could have shielded us from the affects of his powers so our minds wouldn't dismiss or ignore any clues, and then we could have taken him in, alive.” Bruce glared at him. “Then instead of relying on an inconclusive autopsy because there were holes in his brain from a knife, we could have scanned him with machines, with Green Lantern rings, with anything we needed. We could have made sure that Maxwell Dossey was actually Dick’s tormentor, and not someone who just agreed to take the fall for the real man in charge.”

Goddammit, he hated when Bruce was right. Still: “Seems like a bit of a stretch. Who’d agree to memorize a villain monologue, act like a crazy person and have a good chance of dying for his efforts?”

“The point is that we don’t know. And now we never will.” Bruce wasn’t usually smug when he won arguments, but he always gave off a slightly cold sense of satisfaction.

“You just need to be right, don’t you?” Jason felt his lip curl into a snarl. “It’s not about your moral code. You have a pathological need to win the argument; have the most efficient plan. Say the last word.”

“It’s about saving everyone I can!” Bruce raised his voice to a yell, and struggled to bring it back down. “I’m not infallible, Jason, I know that. I’ve failed you all enough to know that.”

The admission almost stunned him into silence, because he’d never heard Bruce admit to being wrong. But then he realized what was happening. He’d had enough fights with Bruce to know that consciously or unconsciously, Bruce always ended these fights with some way to make him feel guilty; make him feel like he was mostly responsible for the problem.

Back when Damian was dead, Bruce had brought him back to the place the Joker had murdered him, and kept asking Jason if he could remember how he’d been brought back to life, even though he’d been on the verge of a panic attack. Jason had lashed out physically, trying desperately to be angry instead of feeling hurt and panicked. Bruce eventually stopped fighting back, and left him with the statement of “I’m still standing, Jason,” and the guilt of feeling like the bad guy in the fight. For not possessing the ability to resurrect his brother from the dead. For hitting Bruce because the sight of the exploded ruins of the Joker’s warehouse made his PTSD flare up like an anaphylactic reaction.

Jason hated how good Bruce was at making him the villain of the story. Well, he was done pulling his punches because of Bruce guilt-tripping him.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “You’ve failed us more times than we can count. Let’s address the elephant that’s been in the room for months, shall we? You punched your son in the fucking face, and that’s why it took him so long to stop flinching and dissociating everytime he saw you!”

Bruce broke eye contact off with Jason, who felt viciously pleased at the amount of shame colouring Bruce’s face.

Bruce’s words came slowly and quietly. “I was in a dark place, after you died. I shouldn’t have hit him, but he was angry and wanted to hurt me by saying it was my fault, for making you Robin. For letting you die. I knew he was right, and I didn’t know how to live with my own failure. It’s no excuse, but I’ve - I’ve never dealt with grief well.”

Jason was paralyzed with shock for a split second before he felt hot rage flush through his body. “So you're telling me that you hit him more than once? That thing with the Court of Owls was the second time you’ve hit him?”

Bruce froze, realizing his mistake in assuming what Jason was referring to.

Or maybe he was trying not to give anything more away.

“Jesus Christ,” Jason’s voice shook with fury. “How many times have you abused him? Have you even bothered keeping track?”

Bruce looked down at the ground with the misery of a man who knew his sin.

“You’re just like Willis,” Jason spat, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “You’re an arrogant, abusing piece of shit, and you think you deserve a free pass because every so often you say you’re sorry.”

Jason watched his words land like a slap to the face, but he couldn’t enjoy it. He felt nauseous, and wondered bitterly if it was because he was emotional or if it was because of the drugs Bruce had pumped into his system.

“Dick needs your support right now, otherwise I’d tell you to never show your face to him again.” He felt angry tears prick the corners of his eyes. “But you so much as lay a finger on him-”

“I wouldn’t,” Bruce said vehemently. “I’ve been careful to only talk to him when he can handle it, and-"

“When he can handle it.” Jason laughed with a hint of hysteria. “Did you only beat him when he could handle it? Is that why you haven’t laid into Damian and Tim, because you know your eldest can take it?”

“I’ve made mistakes.” Bruce rubbed his face with his hand. “After Dick dissociated in the kitchen, those months ago, I started talking with Leslie regularly. It’s… helped.”

It took Jason a few moments to put together what Bruce was attempting to say. “So you’re doing therapy sessions now and you want a gold star?”

“I was wrong, and I’m trying to be better, now.” Bruce looked at Jason with a mixture of frustration and guilt. “What do you want me to say?”

And there it was, whether Bruce realized he was doing it or not. The kind of emotional manipulation that left Jason feeling like he was being unfair to Bruce; for not giving him a chance.

“I can’t handle this,” Jason said suddenly. “You. This. Us arguing. You promising to be a good father and then hurting everyone again when the next crisis hits and you revert back to ignoring your family or lashing out at them. I’m done.”

“We can talk again when you’re more healed and rested-”

“No, I’m done.” Jason looked him in the eyes, something hard and heavy and final in his gut. “Stop pretending you’re my dad. We both know you’ll only love me if I follow your no-kill rule, and we both know I’ll always pull the trigger if it’s necessary.”

“Jay,” Bruce said, looking horribly broken, “you know I’ll always love you-”

“And I’ve finally stopped giving a fuck.” Jason clenched his jaw. “I’m not stupid enough to think we’ll never have to work together again, because you need my help or I need backup, and I’m not going to stop talking with Alfred and Tim and the rest of the family. So I won’t tell you to never talk to me again and cut you completely out of my life, but. But you’ve lost the right to be my dad.”

He averted his gaze from Bruce’s direction so he wouldn’t lose his nerve. “If you hurt Dick, or any of them. If you so much as clench a fist in their direction when you’re angry. I swear to God, Bruce, I will tell the world who Batman really is."

Jason was still pointedly looking away from Bruce, and the silence was thick and tense.

“The secret protects more than just me,” Bruce said eventually, sounding defeated. “Alfred, Damian, Lucius, all the Wayne Enterprises employees; everyone Bruce Wayne has ever associated with becomes a target for Batman’s enemies.”

“Well then you’d better not fucking abuse your children, then,” Jason shot back, turning to face him.

Dick stood in the doorway behind Bruce.

“Dick.” Jason slumped back in the bed, exhausted. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough,” Dick said quietly.

“Dick-” Bruce started.

“Bruce, could you leave us alone? I’d like to talk with Jason.”

As Bruce left the room, Jason felt his composure start to crack.

Dick sat down beside him on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself blurt out. “You’re strong enough to forgive Bruce’s special brand of bullshit but I’m not, I’m not, Dick.”

“It’s okay,” Dick said, tone gentle.

“No, it’s not,” he said childishly. “It’s not fair.”

He felt Dick put an arm around him and say softly, “I know.”

“It’s not fair.” And he was five years old again with his head in his mom’s lap, crying as she stroked his hair. “Why do you put up with him?”

Dick held him tighter, but didn't answer.

“It’s not fair,” he sobbed, the past mixing indistinguishably with the present, his brother running a hand through his hair, his mom hugging him, her form frail from drug abuse and bruises from Willis. “You shouldn’t have to.”

Why hadn't Dick told anyone? Was he scared of Bruce, or protecting him, or did he just not know it was wrong?

“I know, baby,” his mom whispered soothingly. “It’ll be okay.”

It wasn’t fair that someone so nice had to put up with so much crap. It wasn’t fair that Catherine had ended up with someone like Willis. It wasn’t fair that Dick and Bruce loved and needed each other.

_It’s not fair_ looped in his head like a mantra, and he couldn’t tell if he was saying the words out loud or not.

He let his brother hold him for a long, long time, and he wept.

He must have passed out, because he came to hours later, painkillers evidently out of his system because he was sore all over. It made him want to beg Bruce for some morphine. He hated it.

He realized his head was cradled in his big brother’s lap, knees curled up to his own chest. Embarrassment hit him as he remembered how he'd gotten into that position, crying like a baby. He sat up, grunting when the hurt flared up in his stomach and legs. And his shoulder, too. Really, his whole body was just one big throbbing pulse of agony.

“How’re you feeling, Jason?”

“Terrible,” he grumbled, trying to settle into the position that was the least uncomfortable.

Dick smiled sympathetically.

“Sorry for that.” Jason felt guilty. “I should be asking how you’re feeling, you were the one who had to face that bastard and all the trauma he gave you.”

“I’m fine,” Dick said lightly. When Jason frowned in disbelief, he admitted, “Well, just numb, mostly. It’ll hit me later, and then it’ll be my turn to sob snot into your shirt.”

The joking tone didn’t make Jason feel any less bad. “Still, it wasn’t fair of me, you shouldn’t have to carry all that, not when you’re still recovering.”

“You were tortured for a week too,” Dick reminded him. “You were triggered, and I could help, so I did.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.” Jason winced at a pang in his ribcage. “It’s not your job to carry everyone in this damn trainwreck of a family, just because Bruce doesn’t know what to do.”

“Jay, you’ve been taking care of me non-stop since you carried me out of that phonebooth, more than a year ago. That shouldn’t have been your burden to carry either. You’re my little brother, and I shouldn’t depend on you to do everything for me.”

Jason started to protest, but Dick held up a hand. "Hold on. I'm not done."

Jason waited, experimenting with deep and shallow breathing to see which hurt less.

"I was going to leave, go back to my apartment in Bludhaven."

Jason felt panic crawling up his throat.

"I thought I'd taken up enough of your time; more of your life than I had any right to. A year is a long time." Dick grimaced. “It wasn’t fair to you.”

“I didn’t mind,” Jason said, trying not to sound too desperate. “That’s what you needed then. But if you need to move out, now, that’s okay.”

“I could move out, if you wanted me to.” His brother swallowed. “But I’d rather not. And I have a feeling you’d rather me not leave, either.”

Dontleavemedontleavemedontleaveme. “You can stay, if you want.” Jason tried to go for casual, but the words came out a little too quickly.

Dick bumped shoulders with him, smirking. “You can just say you’d like me to stay. I’m not going to report you to the emotion police for admitting you like having me around.”

“Shut up,” Jason grinned sheepishly, the panicked feeling slowly easing out of his chest.

Dick sobered his expression. “It’s not something to be ashamed of, you know. Not wanting people to leave you.”

“Yeah.” Jason shifted, trying to alleviate pressure from the lash wounds on the back of his thighs. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

There wasn’t really anything more to say, but the silence was comfortable even if his injuries weren’t. Jason let his head flop onto Dick’s shoulder, muscles trembling with exhaustion and pain.

It was nice, to finally let himself relax.

He let himself drift off to sleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of Bruce tricking Jason into going to Ethiopia to relive the worst day of his life actually happened in the comics. Him punching Dick right after Jason died also happened. They're very emotional panels and I really didn't do them justice when describing them, and I guess if you want to see the panels I'm referencing you can DM me on my Instagram? I'm @marvelous.batfam, feel free to say hi :)


	14. Chapter 14

It didn’t take him so long to wake up, the next day, without the drugs to make him drowsy and with the pain slicing sharply through his limbs. His muscles felt stiff, but he wasn’t in the mood to incite even more discomfort, so he laid still instead of stretching, willing himself to go back to sleep. It didn’t work.

Dick was sitting up beside him in the bed, dozing. He didn’t look very relaxed, though, shoulders tensed and hands in loose fists; his breathing not as slow and deep as it should be.

Jason tried to sit up without waking him, but the injuries made his motions jerky and stiff. Dick woke up with a start, looking around wildly, eyes wide with confusion and disorientation until he caught sight of Jason, and he took a deep breath that was probably an attempt to calm himself but ended up making him hyperventilate.

“Dick, it’s okay. We’re safe.” Jason pulled his hand out from under the covers, palm up, offering it to his brother.

Dick grabbed at it clumsily, breaths uneven. Jason could tell the touch was grounding, though, because Dick’s pupils were slowly becoming less dilated, and his grip became more intentional, instead of frantically grinding Jason’s fingers together as tightly as possible.

“I’m fine,” Dick said, still breathing a little faster than usual. “I’m fine.”

“No, you aren’t.” The words slipped out before he thought about them.

And then Jason could _see_ Dick’s face start to shut down in an attempt to lock his emotions away.

“Really, I’m fine, Jason.” Each word sounded more flat and detached than the last.

It scared him, more than a little.

“No, you aren’t,” Jason insisted, adding hastily, “and you shouldn’t be, either. The bastard that tortured you for months, for almost a year, kidnapped us both to hurt you, again. And Bruce was an ass, again. And then I bawled my eyes out and you had to support me even though you were dealing with more than me.”

Dick shook his head, looking even more spaced out than before. “You come first,” he mumbled, and Jason wondered if Dick was even aware he was speaking his thoughts. “My turn to help you.”

Jason frowned, opening his mouth to speak, but Dick kept talking, eyes glazed over. “My fault. It’s all my fault, I’m sorry, don’t deserve anything but I can help you, I-”

Jason held Dick’s hand tighter. “No. It’s not your fault.”

Dick shook his head again, numbly.

“You’re allowed to feel emotion, remember?” Jason turned to directly face his brother, even though it pulled at his stitches.

They made eye contact for a split second, anguished guilt flashing in Dick’s eyes before his face shut down again, a vacant shell.

He was still in survival mode, Jason realized. Dick still didn’t feel safe.

Damn Bruce for his fucking no-kill rule and his fucking abuse. This is why he hadn't brought up anything with Bruce, back when he and Damian had first had their conversation about Bruce knocking a tooth out of his son’s mouth with his own fist. It was all in the past, he’d figured, and dredging it up would just make Dick’s recovery harder.

And then Jason had screwed up by arguing about it with Bruce, and crying like a child, and forcing Dick to shove away his own feelings to comfort him. And now Dick was stuck believing he still shouldn’t let any emotion out.

“Let’s go back to our apartment.” At least then they’d be out of the Batcave.

“But you’re still hurt. You need Alfred to-”

“I’ve been a vigilante for how long now?” Jason smiled with the cocky confidence that Dick would have seen right through, if he’d been less out of it. “I know how to keep stitched up wounds clean and how to watch for infections. I’ll be fine.” He’d be exhausted, actually, dealing with everything himself, but it really didn’t matter. He’d feel even worse staying in the Batcave after his explosive conversation with Bruce, and Dick’s obvious fear of letting himself process what had happened.

When Dick didn’t reply, Jason asked, “Unless you want to stay here? What do you want?”

Nothing, and then a little shrug.

“Alright, we’ll go back tonight, then.” It made him tired, just thinking about it, but it was necessary.

A useless father, abusive when he wasn’t absent. Making Jason the only one who could care for - for his older brother, this time, instead of his mom.

Everything had come full circle for Jason Todd.

He’d been too young to save his mom from her addiction and her overdose. He’d loved her so much it hurt, but it hadn’t been enough. He should have tried to get her to go to rehab, or something, anything but let her wrestle demons too strong for her to deal with. He loved his brother, too, with that same protective fierceness and he would do everything in his power to make Dick feel safe and cared for until he was strong enough to fight the demons off on his own. He’d be damned if he let his brother retreat into himself, consumed by guilt and fear.

Alfred knocked on the doorframe, making both boys jump. “Master Jason; Master Dick. May I come in to change Master Jason’s dressings?”

Jason nudged Dick - which hurt his previously dislocated shoulder, ow - and waited until Dick nodded. “Yeah, Alfie, come on in.”

Alfred entered and sat down in a chair beside the bed. He pulled away one of the coverings on Jason’s upper arm, revealing the deep hole that the knife had buried into his flesh. It had required multiple stitches to close, and the whole area was also severely bruised, in a nice collage of fist-sized blotches and heel imprints, along with something a lot wider and maybe baseball bat-shaped. (That, or it had been a 2x4; Jason couldn’t really remember.) He watched unbridled anger and fury flicker over Alfred’s face before it was smoothed into his trademarked butler stoicism.

“Me and Dick are going home tonight.” Jason tried not to grimace at the pain in his arm, because that would definitely not help him convince Alfred to let them leave.

“Master Jason, I’m not sure that’s the wisest course of action.” Alfred was being very patient and gentle, of course, but Jason could hear the slight undercurrent of frustration in his tone. “Your wounds still require a great deal of care.”

Rather than try to argue, he went straight for the jugular. “Alfred, I - we - can’t stay here. In the Cave, or in the Manor. It’s not - I don’t know how much you heard of my argument with Bruce, yesterday, but. We can’t stay here, anymore.”

"My dear boy," Alfred smiled sadly. Of course, Alfred would have overheard. Alfred knew everything. “I’m so sorry it's come to this.”

Jason half-shrugged with the arm Alfred wasn’t tending to, which was unfortunately attached to the shoulder that had been dislocated.

“I have no doubt that you know how to take care of your injuries properly by yourself,” Alfred continued. Thankfully, he seemed to accept that he wouldn’t be able to change Jason’s mind. “But it would put my heart at ease to come by your apartment once a day, to check up on you. If you would allow me.”

Jason’s brain short circuited. Alfred was offering something he’d never expected.

“I would still like to be part of your family, Master Jason.” Alfred’s voice was sorrowful but warm. “I do not fault you for cutting ties with Master Bruce. But that doesn’t mean you have to lose the rest of us.”

Jason felt the seed of something shy and young and hopeful in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe as long ago as his early Robin days. Which, looking back, was probably the only time in his life he’d been truly happy; truly content.

He looked over at Dick, realized they were still holding hands, and gave a little squeeze. “Would you be okay with that?”

“Yeah,” Dick said quietly.

It made the good feeling in his chest settle in more permanently. It wasn’t like he was expecting the rest of the family to put a price on his head, just for yelling at Bruce, but he also hadn’t expected any of them to actively try to keep him in their lives. Jason swallowed to keep his voice from breaking. “Thanks, Alfred.”

“Of course. I hope the both of you know that you can always come to me about anything.” Alfred looked first at Jason, and then to Dick. “No matter what it is you’ve done, or what has been done to you. I will always love you.”

He’d never doubted that Alfred cared about him, but he’d always thought Alfred would ultimately side with Bruce.

_Two people!_ That little part of him that he could never quite erase rejoiced. The little starving street kid that kept a careful inventory of how much food he had, how much money (usually none); how many people he could actually count on to be in his corner. His ride-or-die list, Dick would probably joke, if he was feeling himself.

Two people. Dick Grayson, who'd promised not to leave him. Alfred Pennyworth, who'd promised to care for him, always. And, well, that was two people more than he’d ever expected again, after he’d lost Artemis and Bizarro. It was embarrassing, how happy he was.

Hesitant and sheepish, he asked, “Would you mind driving us back to our apartment? I mean I can, I don’t mind.”

Alfred’s eyes crinkled. “I would be honoured.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking I'll probably have another couple chapters to finish off the fic! Sorry this one took so long to get out. I've enjoyed getting back into writing after years of not doing much of it, and it's been incredible to read all your comments and feedback and thoughts and opinions aaaahhh. Thanks so much, you guys.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably another chapter or two, and we'll reach the end!

Jason had been half expecting Dick to break down the second they entered the apartment, but he didn’t. It didn’t worry him too much, because the other half of him knew it was far more likely for him to wake up screaming from a nightmare, because sleep and dreams would probably loosen his mind and emotions far more than when he was awake and still trying to bury his feelings.

But it was a week, two weeks later, and they’d settled into a routine of Alfred coming by daily to tend to Jason’s cuts and gashes, and Jason sleeping on the couch and Dick taking the bed, and Dick more often than not pretending to fall asleep on the couch so he could be with Jason, and it was reminiscent of their daily habits before Dossey had recaptured Dick. But it was also completely different, because even when he’d been in the deepest throes of trauma and fear, Dick had always been very open. If he was feeling overwhelmed he would cry; even when he was too fearful to voice his needs or wants he always responded gratefully when it was offered to him. Yeah, sometimes he’d dissociate, but when he was back and present he’d always seek out Jason’s comfort.

Now, though, Dick acted almost robotically, his smiles wooden and his mannerisms simply muscle memory. He could hold conversations, but it felt like he wasn’t fully there, like his brain was on auto-pilot and his personality was locked away.

It was now day fifteen since they’d left the warehouse - Jason for the first time, and Dick for the second - and Jason was making himself a coffee. “Morning, Dick,” he yawned, still wearing the hoodie and sweats he’d slept in, hair rumpled at the front into curls like he’d had when he was younger.

“Good morning,” Dick said pleasantly, blankly, sitting at the kitchen table.

“You want anything, coffee, tea, come make it yourself,” Jason said, wondering if being gentle or being teasing was a better approach for getting his brother out of his shell. He wasn’t really sensitive, he was just emotionally removed, so maybe teasing was the way to go? “Lazy ass,” he added belatedly.

“Sure,” Dick said agreeably, walking towards the cupboard to get a mug.

Jason sighed. So he’d provoked a response, but a very impassive one. Great.

His coffee machine made its signature gurgle noise and started belching up his beverage. He waited, scratching at the back of his shoulder, where there was a very itchy cluster of semi-healed welts and slashes.

Something smashed on the ground, and Jason jumped in alarm, heart racing, before realizing that Dick had simply dropped a mug on accident. It was the sound of ceramic breaking on tile, not glass thrown against drywall.

Dick _screamed._

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” Dick wailed hysterically, scrambling backwards and raising his arms to shield his head, before realizing what he was doing and breaking off abruptly. “Shit.”

If Jason hadn’t been on the verge of a panic attack himself, now would have been a great time to get Dick to finally open up about his feelings. As it was he held himself as still as possible, trying to prevent giving away how he felt. It wasn’t Willis. Willis wasn’t drunk, Willis hadn’t thrown a beer bottle, he wasn’t in danger, his mom wasn’t in danger, he was fine. He thought he’d purged his triggers but apparently he’d only suppressed them, and his talk with Bruce had brought them crawling to the surface.

“Goddammit, I was doing better.” Dick tried to wipe the tears off his face. “I thought I was past this. But I guess I never healed, huh? Just hadn’t seen my torturer in a while. He couldn’t have talked to me for more than ten minutes and I’m back to how I was a year ago.”

Jason felt his heart rate slowly come down. Just a mug. It was just a mug.

“I was doing better.” Dick grabbed another mug. “Goddammit.”

“GODDAMMIT!” Dick’s fingers tightened on the mug handle and then he whipped it against the fridge.

Loud, danger, danger, Jason dove under the kitchen table without thinking. The table was safe, he could hide, he’d come out when it was safe again and Willis was done chucking beer bottles against the wall.

“Fuck,” someone said.

Jason was half ashamed that he was cowering under the table but he couldn’t remember why. He was pathetic for doing it but he also couldn’t think of any better options, he was safe here, he’d sit as quietly as possible as his heartbeat echoed in his eardrums and wait until Willis was done.

“Fuck, Jason, I’m sorry.”

Yeah, Willis was always sorry, wasn’t he? That was half the problem.

“Jason, it’s me, fuck.”

Where was the dog? The dog was always under the table with him. She always licked his hand and he hugged her, and he felt a little less alone. Maybe Willis had finally killed the dog like he’d been threatening to all along.

“It’s Dick. I, I’m going to come sit beside you, okay?”

Someone was joining him under the table?

“Jay, let’s take some deep breaths, okay? I’m going to count. Can you breathe with me?”

And then everything was quiet except for the rhythm of breaths. It was nice.

Different table, he realized. The kitchen table was different. The chairs, too. The tiles were white, not the black that his mom had picked out, back when they’d had a little more money and tried to fix up the house a little. The scent was one of fresh coffee, not unwashed dishes.

The panic ebbed away enough for him to function. “Dick?”

Dick was crying. “Fuck, that was stupid of me, I’m sorry.”

“Stop,” Jason said with effort, jaw still clenched from panic and stress, “apologizing. Not your fault.”

“It is, though.” Dick laughed, or sobbed, or something. “It’s my fault and I need to take responsibility for it.”

“No,” Jason struggled to articulate.

“My life was a fucking mess, after Blockbuster,” Dick said, filled with bitter self-loathing and guilt. At least he looked more alive than he had the past two weeks. “I joined the mafia, I was Deathstroke’s apprentice, I tried to take control of Bludhaven’s entire crime economy in order to make up for the murder on my hands. Wasn’t until I took responsibility for my failure that I could move on.”

The mafia? _Deathstroke?_ Why was this the first he’d heard of this?

“I told myself I’d learned from my mistakes but then I went and did the same thing again except this time I didn’t just let it happen, I asked you to do it.” Dick rubbed his hand over his face. “I asked, you killed.”

“Are you glad?” Jason asked. He probably shouldn’t have.

“Glad he’s dead?”

Jason nodded. “D’you wish I hadn’t killed him?”

There was silence. Dick frowned a little, not having expected the question.

Jason inspected his palms and realized they had shards of broken mug in them. He couldn’t feel any pain, which his brain registered as not quite right, but it was a problem for later.

“I’m not happy he’s dead. I don’t wish he was alive, though. I guess I’m just relieved you took care of it.” Dick smiled joylessly. “But I was the one who asked. I asked, you killed. I failed Bruce again, and the least I could do is take responsibility for my own failure but I can’t.”

Jason kind of wished Dick would give him a hug, but he’d never asked for one before and he definitely wasn’t going to ask for one now. He tried to pull one of the bloody slivers out of his hands. “I woulda been happy to kill him even without you asking. He knew our identities, he had dangerous powers, he was a cruel selfish torture-fetish bastard. He deserved it. That kill’s on my hands.”

“Still. I was complicit, I let it happen, I still have some responsibility to take.”

“Taking every single thing that happens and feeling personally guilty for it is not the same thing as taking responsibility.” Jason picked another jagged shard out of his palm. “I know Bruce hammered that into our skulls, but I’m done taking emotional advice from a furry in a batsuit.”

That startled a laugh out of Dick.

“Not your fault I had a panic attack either,” Jason continued and Dick quieted. “That’s Willis’s fault. That’s Bruce’s fault. Not yours.”

“But it still wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t lost control.” Dick closed his eyes but the tears escaped anyway. His voice rough with upset, he muttered, “God, what’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” Jason said quietly. “You have every right in the world to be angry, after what you’ve been through.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t feel bad that I made mistakes that hurt you?” Dick clenched his fingers in his hair. “God, what the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Stop it.” Jason was tired. The panic had left him with exhaustion and embarrassment. He wasn’t a child anymore, why was he hiding under the table? “Talk to your therapist, talk to Alfred, whatever. Obviously I don’t know how to convince you. But it’s not your fault.”

“If I hadn’t asked you to kill, you wouldn’t have, and you wouldn’t have argued with Bruce, and you wouldn’t feel like this.”

“Stop finding ways to make everything your fault.” Jason was too drained to find a kind and gentle way to deal with Dick’s guilt. “Not everything is about you. Sometimes things just happen because life sucks, okay?”

Dick’s eyelids shot open, pupils darting towards Jason. “I’m sorry, I’m making this all about me, and you’re hurting-”

“Shut up and stop apologizing.” Jason stared at his bloody hands. “It’s not your fault. If it’s not my fault that everyone I know leaves me or -” his voice broke -”or dies, then it’s not your fault, it, it’s not…”

Jason gave up on the remaining slivers in his hands and hugged his knees to his chest. He wasn’t strong enough to help Dick. He wasn’t even strong enough to deal with his own pain, apparently. He buried his face in his knees.

“Jay…”

He missed them so much. He knew it wasn’t his fault they were gone, he knew that intellectually, but in his heart, it still felt very much like he was responsible.

“I’m sor-” Dick cut himself off. “I, I didn’t mean to make it seem like it was your fault.”

Jason didn’t reply.

“Can I hug you?”

He inwardly sobbed with relief. He didn’t trust his voice to keep steady, so he simply nodded.

Dick’s arms around him were warm and solid. His resolve weakened and he let himself melt into Dick’s embrace, palms stinging and head thrumming with the type of headache he always got after a panic attack.

God, what a picture they must make, two adult-sized boys huddled under the table, two smashed mugs littering the floor, one hugging the other who was curled up in the fetal position, both of them crying. Hurting together and hiding from the world.

Broken. But at least they could help pick up each other's pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had those panels of Jason stuck in my head, where he's hiding under the table with his dog while his parents fight, and I just had to include it. So. Canon inspired angst :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m now realizing I could have reworked and combined this chapter with the last to make one regular-sized chapter, and it would have flowed better. Oops. Oh well. The angst lasts longer this way I guess :)

They sat together under the table for hours. Not talking, but just existing in the comfort of each other’s company. Dimly, Jason wondered if it was Bruce’s fault that he’d unearthed all his buried triggers, or if living with Dick for a year had finally convinced him that it was okay not to be okay, and he’d finally relaxed enough to notice how broken he’d always been.

Dick’s arms were wrapped solidly around him but he was also quivering, quiet sobs soaking the back of Jason’s neck and shirt. It was somehow just the right amount of comfort and vulnerability, with Dick’s hold firm enough to make him feel safe, and the fact that he was also trembling with guilt and upset made Jason feel like he could be open about his feelings too. And Jason wasn’t crying, exactly, but making desperate little gaspy sobs that would have been utterly humiliating, if anyone other than Dick had been there.

But it was Dick. So he let his wheezing, shuddering whimpers escape without trying to hold them back. Until he’d drenched the whole front of Dick’s shirt, head still ringing from the panic attack and now also stuffy from snot and tears. Until he felt the tiniest bit better. Enough that his breathing began to even out and his emotions weren’t turbulent enough to dull all other sensation, which unfortunately reignited the physical pain of the still-healing bruises and gashes down his back. He was also suddenly very aware of how much his palms hurt, throbbing around the shards of mug that had sliced into his hands when he’d thrown himself onto the floor under the table. It was a bit relieving that it was finally hurting instead of the weird numb absence of pain, but the aching was decidedly not comfortable.

There was a knock on the door, and Jason jumped, cowering further into Dick’s chest. At the same time his brother flinched and tightened his grip around Jason almost painfully, in a mixture of protectiveness and the need for comfort himself.

“Master Dick; Master Jason. I have here with me some cream for Master Jason’s wounds, and some soup, if you haven’t had lunch yet.”

Alfred. Right, it was about the time that Alfred had been coming by daily. Jason shifted a little, unwilling to leave Dick’s hug. Now that he had the comfort he’d always craved, he really didn’t want to give it up.

“If you are busy, sirs, I can come back later.” Alfred’s voice sounded very patient and understanding, but Jason still felt bad, for reasons he couldn’t really pin down.

“Just a sec, Alfred,” Dick called hoarsely. He squeezed Jason even tighter and dropped his voice lower. “Are you okay if I leave to get the door?”

He didn’t want to have to be okay, but the ugly sobs had tapered off, so he nodded.

Dick unclasped his arms and Jason was acutely aware of the loss of warmth. Picking his way carefully so as to not step on any slivers of mug, Dick left Jason under the table, feeling small and alone and pathetic.

The table blocked his view of the door, but he could hear Dick fumbling with the locks. He didn’t really want Alfred to find him hiding under the table - even the idea was humiliating - but he didn’t have the energy to move. So he sat, hugging his knees to his chest, and listened to the door swing open.

“Master Dick, I-” Alfred must have been taking in Dick’s tear-soaked appearance. “Oh, dear. Did something happen?”

Dick gave a sort of wet laugh. “Yeah. Uh. We’re okay. You can come in.”

He heard the clatter of Alfred putting down whatever he was carrying onto the counter, and then steady, calming footsteps approaching him. Alfred’s legs appeared in view, but instead of remaining standing and towering over Jason, he stooped down to the floor. His smile so gentle that somehow Jason didn’t feel embarrassed.

He felt Alfred’s gaze on the red dripping from his hands, but it was one of compassion, not judgement. “Let’s get you onto the couch so we can patch you up then, sir.”

The words were just enough to get him going. Jason crawled out from under the table ungracefully, and made his way to his couch with unsteady limbs. It was a relief to sit down again.

And an even greater relief when Alfred didn’t ask any questions, and simply began removing the pieces of mug from his palms. Dick hovered awkwardly for a few minutes before sitting down beside Jason.

“Am I just stupid?” Dick said suddenly, breaking the silence. “If Bruce reminds Jason of Willis because of everything he’s done, and isn’t putting up with him anymore, why am I? Bruce has been doing better than - well, I thought he was doing better, and he’s been trying to accommodate my stupid triggers, but is it enough? Am I just dumb for forgiving him over and over?”

Both boys looked up at Alfred.

Jason didn’t know if he wanted Alfred to back up his own decision, or Dick’s. Selfishly he wanted Alfred to say that he was right, but he also didn’t want Dick to feel stupid. He’d always needed Bruce’s approval far more than Jason ever had. Even when Bruce and Dick had been in the middle of their biggest fights, he’d always gotten the impression that Dick still needed to know Bruce was there for him, at the end of the day. Whereas Jason had never needed Bruce’s permission; had killed dozens of people knowing it was right, and worth it. Despite knowing what Bruce’s reaction would be like. He did wish Bruce would come to see things from his perspective, but he didn’t _need_ it.

Maybe that was the difference between them. Jason had never needed Bruce, even though he wanted him. Wanted a dad; wanted someone to care for him and be willing to go any length to protect him. But Dick needed Bruce, even when he didn’t always want him.

Alfred pulled another jagged edge from Jason’s hand. “You, Master Dick, are perhaps the most optimistic and hopeful young man I have ever met. Despite all the tragedy and sorrow in your life, you have never given up on yourself, or those around you. You have always loved your family selflessly, and forgiven generously. Do not be ashamed of who you are.”

Dick looked confused, uncomfortable with the compliment and very happily relieved all at once.

“Master Bruce has committed to regular sessions with Doctor Thompkins, and I do believe I have noticed change in his behaviour, though he is still far from perfect.” Alfred sighed. “I wish I had realized all along how he had hurt you, Master Dick. I might have intervened sooner.”

Of course. Alfred would have been the one to convince Bruce that therapy was necessary.

“I do not think he will hurt you, or Masters Tim and Damian, in that way,” Alfred continued.

God. Tim and Damian - Jason didn’t even want to think about the possibility of Bruce abusing them.

“So you are not stupid, Master Dick. You are acting according to your nature, and so long as your therapist also approves, it is not unsafe for you to carry on as you are. It may not feel like it at the moment, but you are handling everything extraordinarily well, and I am very proud of you.”

Which made Jason feel like the biggest asshole ever, for rejecting Bruce’s imperfect but genuine attempts at being better.

As Alfred finished cleaning out his hands, Jason blurted, “So it’s me, then. I fucked up. Bruce is finally trying to be better and I just told him he didn’t have the right to be my dad.”

“Language, Master Jason,” Alfred chided gently. “And no. You have not messed up.”

He knew his face was full of doubt and disbelief, and somehow that felt rude in the face of Alfred’s wisdom, so he averted his eyes, instead watching Alfred begin to wrap his hands.

“He has hurt and betrayed your trust, and it is not foolish to react in the manner you did. It is never a mistake to realize what boundaries and limits you need to put up, to keep your mind healthy. To realize what you must do to take care of yourself.”

“But I don’t feel better,” Jason admitted. “I thought telling Bruce to go fuck himself would feel good. But I don’t feel...safer, or healthier, or any of that shit.”

Alfred didn’t reprimand the cursing this time, which made Jason pay even closer attention to his reply. “Because you have not made peace with your decision, Master Jason. You are still unsure whether you should have said the things you did, and that is perfectly natural. But you should feel no pressure to reconnect with him, if you don’t want to.”

Alfred finished the loose wrappings around his hands. They still ached but somehow felt better now; more protected.

“And it is in your nature to take a stand for what you believe in, instead of compromising.” Alfred smiled. “I am proud of you; how you were unafraid to confront Master Bruce and say what needed to be said, in defense of yourself and of your brothers. Do not be ashamed of who you are.”

And damn, it was good to hear Alfred say that. Jason’s upset didn’t magically go away, but he didn’t feel as raw and open and unsure anymore. There was a certain level of comfort in knowing that what he’d told Bruce was reasonable, and wasn’t just him screwing up and causing more people to leave him.

He felt Dick lean into his side; felt the warmth start to build up between them.

“That’s why,” Dick murmured.

“Huh?”

“That’s why I called you.”

Jason wondered if his brain was still working too slowly to understand Dick. “What?”

“In the phone booth.”

The phone booth?

Oh.

“I called you because,” Dick was a breath away from whispering too quietly to hear, “I knew you’d protect me. From everyone. From Dossey, mostly, but also from Bruce, because. Everyone else I know could be convinced that Bruce knew me best, and would take the best care of me. The Titans, the rest of the batfamily, the Justice League. They would have taken me back to Bruce, and he wouldn’t have understood.”

“But you don’t compromise. You do what’s necessary, even if Bruce doesn’t agree.” His brother swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Jason’s arm. “You put the victims first, above the law, and above Bruce’s rules. I knew you’d keep me safe and - and I knew you’d understand me.”

Jason was stunned. He’d thought that Dick had called him simply because he was willing to kill, and Dick had wanted a man dead, and he’d called the person most likely to pull the trigger. But that wasn’t what Dick was saying, at all.

Dick had called Jason. Not just because of what he was willing to do - kill, murder, be the black sheep of the family - but because of who he was. Because Dick believed Jason would understand him.

“I’m sorry,” Dick said softly. “I treated you like shit, before. But you still gave up a year of your life to take care of me, no questions asked.”

“I treated you like shit too.” Jason laughed hoarsely. “It’s okay.”

A clattering noise from the direction of the kitchen told him that Alfred was probably beginning to warm up the soup he’d brought, or cooking up something else. It felt comforting to know someone was going to cook for them; look after them. The smell started to waft, chicken noodle soup and some other side dish that his stuffed up nose couldn’t decipher. He leaned his head against Dick’s.

“Thanks,” he said. All other words seemed inadequate.

Dick curled up closer against Jason’s side.

And if Jason was crying a little, well. He was with the two people in the world who wouldn’t think of him any less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reconciliation is tough. Even if the situation isn’t exactly abusive, it can be hard to know when it’s worth it to mend a relationship or simply let it fall away. Harder still when the relationship is with a family member. I’m not a professional so please don’t base major life decisions off of this chapter, but. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while, and I guess it came out in this chapter lol. So. Anyway. Hope you enjoyed, stay safe from Corona, say hi to me on insta if you want :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a little sidetracked with the Talon AU, but I finally finished this chapter! I reread this whole fic too, and part of the time I was like wow, this is really good I'm a good writer! And then sometimes I could feel my spirit melting into the floor with how I'd worded something or handled the plot. But somehow it actually flowed decently? Like I was a bit worried because I wrote all the chapters separately, almost like connected one-shots, but it ended up being a half-decent binge read. Anyway. I realize I'm rambling.
> 
> Here's the final chapter, a bit longer than usual. Hope you enjoy!

Jason walked up the hall towards his apartment door, lugging a bag of groceries with each arm. Ordinarily he could have easily carried twice as much with just one arm, but he also usually wasn't recovering from a week's worth of constant torture. His body didn't look like one big bruise anymore, but there were still multiple patches where the green and purple hadn't completely faded yet. The shallower scrapes were nicely scabbed, but the deeper slashes were definitely still healing, and he could feel the different sets of stitches pulling through skin and muscle on his arms and torso. He was also beginning to wonder if maybe they'd missed some fractures in the initial x-rays, since small fractures didn't always reveal themselves immediately, or at all. Not enough to cripple him, but enough to make each footstep send a shockwave of pain up his ribs. He'd have to remember to bring that up when Alfred came by later this morning.

He reached his door and transferred both bags to one hand. It put a lot more strain on his previously dislocated shoulder than he was comfortable with, but he needed a hand free to dig around in his pocket for the apartment key, and if he put the bags down he was pretty sure the precariously packed groceries would shift and fall out. His hand hit the cool metal of the key, and he knew Dick would still be asleep this early in the morning so he didn't bother knocking; just jammed the key in and turned it - damn, that twisting motion hurt his wrist - and stepped inside.

He shut the door behind him with his foot, kicking his shoes off before trudging to the kitchen to pack away all the food, and then almost dropped both bags at the sight of Bruce standing in his kitchen.

In the Batman suit, cowl down, looking like he hadn't slept in days. The expression on his face was the perfect mix of self-righteousness and self-flagellation that screamed 'I know I'm in the wrong but I'm trying really hard to do the right thing, and if you get angry at me you'll feel like a complete asshole for not being kind and forgiving me.'

Jason surprised himself by not even being angry, just tired and a little exasperated. Maybe that brief period of time where he'd truly believed he was free of dealing with Bruce's dramatic family bullshit had been good for him. So no, he didn't feel the usual surge of anger and hurt, just a sort of quiet resignation and exhaustion.

His words came out with a sigh. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Bruce had the audacity to look ashamed of his actions. "I know you told me not to –”

"Before you begin, I just want you to know that whatever reason you're here, you're definitely not helping your point by breaking into my apartment after I asked you to respect my boundaries." Jason set the groceries down with a little more force than necessary.

Bruce looked pained. "I'm sorry."

There he went again, with his damn apologies. Jason let out his breath in a huff and flipped a palm up in exasperation. "Whatever. Say whatever it is you broke in here to say."

"I wanted to...apologize, for not being the father you needed me to be." Bruce's eyes drifted to the floor. "And I accept what you told me. If you don't want me in your life, that's...that's your choice, and I'll do my best to respect that."

Jason narrowed his eyes. "So you broke into my apartment just to tell me everything we both already knew."

"And to say that if you ever...feel like reconnecting, or that you want us to be –“ the terms ‘father’ and ‘son’ went unsaid –“closer. I don't want you to feel like you closed that door forever. I'll always love you, Jason."

And wow, that really played with Jason's emotions. Made him re-evaluate his decision to stop relating to Bruce as his father.

"I realize now that giving you space might have looked like I was favoring your brothers over you and that might have been hurtful, but it was never my intention to make you feel like an outsider of the family." Bruce swallowed, a tell that he usually hid, but he was being surprisingly open and honest this conversation. "I'm sorry."

This was almost exactly what he'd wanted to hear from Bruce for years. And of course he had to say it now, after Jason had screamed at him for not trying hard enough.

"I don't want to repeat that mistake, and leave you thinking you can't take back what you said. I want you to know that you can always come back if you want." Bruce's tone was ever so slightly desperate. "Come back home."

Bruce was being genuine, of course. But did he actually regret his actions, or was he just sorry he'd driven Jason away? And even if Jason accepted everything Bruce said, what guarantee did he have that Bruce would continue his Good Dad streak forever? He really did seem like he was trying this time, for real.

And then he reminded himself of Dick's flinches, and Bruce's excuses for his own actions whenever the next crisis hit and someone died, or there was an alien invasion, and he decided it was necessary to keep his family in the dark from information they deserved to know. Or was overly critical of small, insignificant things that really didn't matter in the long run, but left all his sons with feelings of inadequacy. Or tried to protect them by being overly controlling. Or had such an explosive argument with Dick that he ended up _hitting_ him.

"This, right here, is what I'm the most sick of," Jason said firmly. "For months, sometimes years, you'll close yourself off emotionally. You'll find a good excuse, sure, like the death of a family member, or some deep dark secret that you're afraid will hurt everyone else. You won't accept anyone's help, or if you do, you'll lash out at them in some way. And then eventually you realize you're wrong, and you give a big apology speech about how your family is the most important thing and you're sorry you aren't good enough for them. And everyone comes crawling back to you, just for the cycle to repeat."

Bruce opened his mouth, but Jason interrupted him before he had the chance to speak. "Don't bullshit me. After I died and Tim tried to push his way into your life to save you from self-destruction, how long did it take for you to thank him?"

From the guilt-stricken look on Bruce's face, it was highly likely that he'd never actually thanked Tim, at least not with words. And Jason knew – from personal experience – that the occasional pat on the shoulder after a long night's patrol wasn't nearly a good enough substitute.

"And that outrageous lie about the Joker, after all the history the family has been through with that sick bastard." Jason clenched his jaw. "Or that stupid incomplete case file you left for us to deal with while you had amnesia. We almost didn't stop Mother in time, because you left important details out, just because you were afraid they'd make you look bad."

Bruce grimaced.

"So while those were some very touching words, you'll forgive me if I don't believe them," Jason said dryly.

Bruce took a slow breath. "Then how do you want me to make it up to you? What's your point to all this; what do you want from me?"

Jason shook his head incredulously, tempted to laugh. "What do I want from you? Do you think I said the things I did to manipulate you? Is your opinion of me really that low, or do you just assume everyone is as emotionally manipulative as you?"

Bruce looked like he'd been punched in the gut.

"No, Bruce," Jason continued, "I've stopped expecting anything from you. I don't want you to do anything except leave me the hell alone. None of these surprise break-ins so that we can have a heart-to-heart where you fuck with my emotions."

The heavy silence that followed gave Jason time to realize that he hadn't lost his temper with a flood of rage; hadn't even felt the clench of anger.

His breakdown under the kitchen table had reminded him of a mindset he hadn't had in a long, long time. Of being a victim; of being helpless. Of how he'd felt before he'd learned to shield himself with anger and allow vengeance and rage to strengthen his actions. But that strategy had never taken away his pain and trauma, he realized. Just masked it, and created a new problem.

When Bruce spoke, it was almost a whisper. "I can't - I don't want to lose any more family."

And fuck, that really made him feel guilty. Bruce had lost his parents, and then he'd built a new family. And despite his shortcomings as a dad, he'd tried so hard to keep them all alive and safe, only for so many of them to get hurt and die. And even if they came back, something was always irreparably different. It must feel to Bruce like he was simply fated to always lose the ones he loved. It cut to Jason's core.

It was another damn guilt trip.

That's really what it was, whether or not Bruce realized what he was doing. And it made Jason feel like he was trapped; like he had no choice but to remain with Bruce forever and ever. It was so tempting to cloak the vulnerability with anger and bitterness, and taunt Bruce with his failures until he left Jason alone. But that would just launch both of them back into the vicious cycle that Jason was trying so desperately to avoid.

Jason Todd was tired of being angry.

He leaned back against the table, suddenly weary. "Then prove it to me. Get through the next two or three crises without shutting everyone out. Without lashing out at anyone. Without fucking beating your eldest son."

He crossed his arms. "You say you're in therapy; that you've changed. Prove it to me. And don't keep finding ways to guilt me into coming back to be your good little soldier. Let me decide by myself if you've changed enough that I want you as, as my dad, again."

Bruce nodded, looking old and beaten. When Jason refused to say anything else, he slowly made his way towards the door.

"For what it's worth, Jason." Bruce turned the knob. "I'm sorry."

Jason didn't miss a beat. "Then prove it to me. Prove me wrong, Bruce. I wish I could take your word for it, but. I just don't believe in you anymore."

Shoulders hunched, Bruce pulled up his cowl, and left.

Jason didn't feel any satisfaction, or regret. He just felt dry and empty and completely depleted of energy. He dropped down onto one of the kitchen chairs and stared at the two full bags of groceries.

Bruce was just so exhausting to deal with.

This was why he wanted out of the weird pseudo-father/son relationship they had. Bruce might enjoy the brooding and mental angst he embraced after their conversations and arguments, because maybe it made him at least feel like he was trying his hardest. Maybe he enjoyed stewing in the guilt, because at least he was acknowledging his failure and atoning for it by mentally beating himself up. Maybe he was only thinking of the negative repercussions that he could use to punish himself, and didn't realize how much it also hurt the other person.

Whatever the case, Jason was done with being Bruce's emotional punching bag just for Bruce to complain about his own split and bleeding knuckles.

"Jay." He felt a hand on his shoulder. The conversation must have woken Dick up.

He felt dry. Brittle. "Did you hear the whole thing?"

"Most of it, I think. Didn't want to interrupt."

Jason nodded. He didn't really know what to say.

Dick removed his hand and ambled over to the groceries, starting to pack the food away. At Jason's weak protest that he could do it, Dick just laughed. "Sit your ass down. You're still hurt. You shouldn't be bending down and lifting this stuff anyway."

"I have a couple stitches, not arthritis," Jason grumbled, but he didn't really have the energy to pack anything into the fridge. Dick smirked at him knowingly, and Jason fake-glared back.

The fragile, brittle thing on his insides was almost replaced with the feeling of normalcy. Dick didn’t speak, but started packing away milk and eggs into the fridge, and Jason was content to watch him shove everything onto the shelves.

He just felt so empty and tired. And –

Oh.

“Dick,” he realized. “I’m not angry.”

Dick closed the fridge door and turned to face Jason, confusion on his face. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been angry for so long, I didn’t even –” Jason paused. “I didn’t realize how it was always there, in the background, influencing my decisions and reactions and –”

Dick sat down at the table across from him while he gathered his thoughts.

“I needed the anger to survive, when I was a kid. And then I used it to fuel me, when I came back to life, instead of feeling despair. But I don’t need it anymore.” He looked at Dick incredulously. “I didn’t realize how much I relied on it, to push me forward into action. But now I-“

He cut himself off, looking down at his hands, mostly healed from the mug slicing into them.

Anger wasn’t a personality trait, but an emotion. And he’d clung to it for so long that he hardly knew who he was without it. He could trace the thread of anger through every single memory he could recall, and it was so clear now how it tangled up his thoughts and feelings. Any compassion he felt for a victim mingled with rage and bloodlust for the perpetrator. Any happy memories he had as the Robin to Bruce’s Batman were corrupted with his bitterness at being replaced, and any bad memories from his Robin days only fueled his animosity further.

Whatever protective feelings he had for Tim and Damian and Dick were mixed so thoroughly with his rage at Bruce that he couldn’t distinguish the two. Was he actually trying to defend his brothers from abuse? Or had he just used the situation to justify his anger at Bruce and fuel his side of the argument? Did he care about his family at all, or was he just selfishly feeding the flames of his own anger?

He felt sick.

“Jason?” Dick said worriedly, jolting him out of his thoughts. Dick Grayson, who he never ever would have confided anything in before all of this. He remembered hating his older brother and the perfect, unattainable standard for excellence that he represented.

Dick Grayson, who he’d been through so much with in the past year. Who’d started helping Jason work though his own messed up mental state even as he recovered from a year of torture. Dick Grayson, who’d promised not to leave him.

“Who am I?” Jason asked, voice rough. “Without the anger. The rage.”

Dick looked surprised and a little concerned. He opened his mouth to reply.

“Be honest,” Jason interrupted hurriedly. Desperately. “Please.” Because Dick looked like he was choosing his words carefully, and Jason didn’t think he could handle fluffy nice words and platitudes. He wanted – _needed_ – the truth.

“I don’t think I could tell you exactly what you need to hear right now,” Dick said slowly. “But I think that’s okay. You don’t really need another person telling you who you are.”

And while Dick was definitely right, it didn’t make Jason feel any better.

“I know how you feel, though.” Dick laughed a little at the skeptical look on Jason’s face. “No, I’m serious. Not with anger, but with the person I was before Dossey’s fun little torture experiment.”

Dick tapped his fingers restlessly on the table. “As I’m recovering, and I’m not so fucking afraid all the time, I’m becoming more myself again. But then something will happen, like you and Bruce this morning, and I get this urge to act like I would have before. To throw myself into the middle of the conversation and find a way to make everyone happy and reconciled.”

The early morning light came in through the windows at just the right angle to bring attention to the scarred, mangled flesh of Dick’s face. “But I don’t know if that was even who I really was, or if I was just used to being the cheerful, optimistic son. I don’t know if I’m remembering who I used to be, or the role I used to play. I don’t know if I’ve changed too much to go back to the person I was, or if I’d even want to.”

Jason snorted. “Well, aren’t we the poster children for mental health.”

“Yeah.” Dick rolled his eyes. “I thought it would make me feel better to have reclaimed Nightwing before I met up with the Titans and everyone else. I thought it would make me feel more like myself. But turns out, punching people while wearing a leotard doesn’t solve everything.”

“I coulda told you that before,” Jason said, finding himself smirking. He still felt a little empty, but not as much as before.

“Shut up,” Dick laughed. “I’m just saying. Neither of us know who we are anymore, and I think that’s okay. We can figure ourselves out together.”

“Yeah?” The word came out a lot more hesitant and unsure than he’d wanted it to sound.

“Of course.” Dick gave Jason a devil-may-care grin. “Look, I’ve spent enough time worrying about who I was, even before all this shit with Dossey. As Robin, I was afraid I’d let Bruce down because I wasn’t good enough, and as Nightwing, I wanted to prove myself as a hero of my own, not just Batman’s sidekick. And whenever I’d step up in Bruce’s absence to actually be Batman, I’d worry that I was becoming too much like him. I’ve had enough identity crises to last a lifetime, and let me tell you, it doesn’t make you feel any better to wallow in it. So what if I’m relearning who I am, again? I’ve always been good at flying without a safety net.”

At this point Jason was only feeling disgruntled because he was actively resisting the infectious optimism oozing out of his brother. “Uh-huh. Not all of us were spawned at a circus, though.”

“Oh, it’s not as hard as it looks,” Dick returned good-naturedly, standing up from his chair and starting to walk towards Jason. “I’ll show you the ropes.”

This time Jason didn’t bother tamping down the surge of hope and relief. He stood up to face Dick, feeling childishly shy. “Can I –“ he shifted awkwardly. “Uh, can I h–“

“Always.” Dick saved him further embarrassment by smothering him in a hug. “You’re a dumbass, Jason Todd.”

Arms gripping around his brother, he found he was laughing, despite himself. The last of the dry and brittle exhaustion melted away.

He could feel the scars ridging the skin underneath Dick’s thin t-shirt, and the weight of Dick’s arms put pressure on the still-healing wounds on his back. But he didn’t really care that the strength of the hug hurt a little – in fact, he was grateful that Dick hadn’t sacrificed the fierceness of the hug just to be careful with him – because he’d never been one to run from pain. He’d never been scared of pain. Just of being alone. Of being replaced; forgotten. Cast aside.

“Thanks,” he whispered, and they both knew it wasn’t just for the hug.

“Of course.” His brother’s tone was strong with conviction.

With love.

Jason wasn’t as okay as he wanted to be. He didn’t even know _who_ he wanted to be. But maybe it didn’t even matter, because whatever happened, whatever he suffered through, whatever earth-shaking event or small, personal crisis occurred. They’d face it together. They’d find a way to get through it, together.

He wasn’t alone.


End file.
